


We're No Saviors (if we can't save our brothers)

by manzanitaposts



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Arthur Morgan Lives, Bisexual Arthur Morgan, Fix-It of Sorts, Found Family, Gay Cowboys, M/M, Slow Burn, Yearning, arthur is his big bro, charthur nation rise, early 20th century ranching simulator, hunting together can actually be so romantic, john is just a little brother
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:41:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 69,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27498868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manzanitaposts/pseuds/manzanitaposts
Summary: 'Little Jack Marston approached Arthur and the newcomer with a stick in one hand, all gap toothed smile and bare feet."Hello! Will you be staying with us now?" Jack asked. Arthur paused, watching to see how this would play out. However unintentional, this was a test, of sorts. Charles, to his credit, didn't seem confused by a little boy in the midst of an outlaw gang. Though, Arthur supposed if he were, he wouldn't give that away."I believe I am for now, yes. What's you name?""My name's Jack! Who are you?""I'm Charles." And this big bear of a man crouched down to Jack's level and extended a hand. Jack dropped his stick and grabbed Charles's proffered hand with both of his, shaking it vigorously."Uncle Arthur told me a strong handshake is real important, so I look strong too!" Jack grinned at Charles, who chuckled at the boy."You did real good. That's a nice strong shake you've got there." Charles straightened back up, and Jack beamed up at him like he'd just set the sun ablaze. It felt like it should mean something to Arthur, but all he could think was that this Charles Smith feller had just earned his trust.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Charles Smith
Comments: 44
Kudos: 137





	1. Blackwater I: Hospitality of a Different Sort

**Author's Note:**

> There aren't nearly enough charthur fics in the world, so I decided to change that. This is my first big fic, and of course I had to make it a beast, so bear with me here. The title of this fic is from the song Cardinals by The Wonder Years. A few notes I want to clear up:  
> 1\. I'm going to be following the canon timeline pretty closely, but there will be a few changes here and there.  
> 2\. I love Charles and Arthur's relationship. I also love the bond they have with the Marston's and Sadie and Hosea and basically everyone. This will mostly be about Charles and Arthur but I hope to really explore their friendships with everyone else, too. We love a found family story. (Dutch Bill and Micah do not interact).  
> 3\. I'll do my best to handle everything in game and in this fic that can be construed as sensitive content -- period typical racism and homophobia, violence, Charles's relationship with his heritage, and more, as respectfully as possible, but if anything comes across as insensitive or incorrect, please let me know.  
> 4\. Related to the last thing, I've done research on various subjects for this fic, i.e. medical treatment, weapon usage, horse care, etc. for the time period, but I've also taken some liberties because hey. I do this for fun. So please allow for some suspension of belief, and I'll try to make it feel as accurate as possible. Thanks for reading :)

_November 1, 1898_

Winter on the Great Plains was too damn cold, for how far southwest they'd come. The Van der Linde gang had just recently made camp here, moving south out of the Grizzlies as fall set in to prepare for the coming cold months. The gang was growing, had been for some time -- Dutch just kept finding strays to bring into the fold. Their newest recruit was a young girl named Jenny Kirk, who they'd met on their way south. She'd proved a hell of a shot when she'd sniped a cougar that'd been set on some of their horses, earning the gang's respect and a place among them. Arthur could see Jenny now, from his cot in his tent, set on the far eastern edge of the camp. The canvas walls of his tent were tied back, allowing him to watch the whole camp -- keeping one eye out on this motley assortment of folks he called family. Arthur watched Jenny sitting by the fire, cleaning her rifle and having an animated discussion with Lenny. Leonard was another young man -- a kid, really, only nineteen -- who'd been picked up by Dutch. He'd been running with them now for just under a year, and though he'd never admit it, Arthur thought his infatuation with Jenny was sweet. The kid had been through a lot for how little life he'd lived yet. There was plenty of time for him to see the harsh realities of their lifestyle, but for now, he deserved a bit of respite. Arthur sketched the scene in his journal, trying to get the gentle teasing on Jenny's face and the enraptured puppy love on Lenny's portrayed _just so_. The low murmur of voices around the camp soothed Arthur while he worked, a relaxing background hum. Arthur worked hard for this gang, for Dutch -- providing for all these folk. He enjoyed the moments of rest at the end of the day, when he could be alone with his thoughts, reflecting through his journal.

Dutch and Hosea were both absent at the moment, leaving him the most senior member of the gang. As such, Arthur felt compelled to make sure nothing went wrong in their absence. One eye on his journal, the other on the camp, Arthur took advantage of the moment of peace. The sun was setting, and the camp was mostly settled for the evening. Arthur wondered when Dutch and Hosea would return from the lead they’d been chasing up. He thought it strange they’d stopped to set up camp here in West Elizabeth, barely out of sight of the nearest city: Blackwater. The way Dutch and Hosea had remembered it, it’d been barely more than a trading post. When they arrived to see a bustling city, Arthur’d expected they’d keep on moving. They weren’t nearly far west as he'd hoped. But instead, Dutch had wanted to camp a stones throw outside the city—on a quiet evening, Arthur could hear the industrial heartbeat of the city beyond the canvas walls of his tent. It was strange, but the whole city made Arthur nervous like a hemmed in mustang. He hoped they’d find some money to be made and get gone soon. He didn’t imagine anything good would come of staying here, city conveniences of baths and hot meals be damned.

//

_November 2, 1898_

Morning fell on the Great Plains like whiskey spilled on a saloon floor—slowly, and then all at once, golden and warm. The country they were in certainly was beautiful. They'd camped right by the cliffs outside of Blackwater, which had given Abigail plenty to worry about, but. It was a fine view. To the north, the cliffs dropped sharply over the Upper Montana River. To the east, Flat Iron Lake ate up the horizon, with Blackwater rising out of it like some kind of Lovecraftian horror. To the south and the west, rolling grasslands as far as he could see. Arthur had risen with the sun, and was enjoying his coffee by the campfire. There were chores to be done, surely, but for now all was quiet. Hoofbeats heralded the arrival of someone to camp, presumably returning from a hard night of working. Arthur rose from his spot by the campfire, tin mug of coffee in hand. Hosea was riding into camp on Silver Dollar, followed by John on his flea-bitten grey stallion Fish. 

“Mornin’ Arthur.” Hosea greeted him. 

“Mornin’ Hosea. Where’s Dutch?” Arthur asked. He felt John’s eyes digging into him, but before he could open his mouth— 

“John, see to the horses for me, would you?” Hosea asked. Apparently even Marston had the sense to not get in Hosea’s way when he was up to something, because he went without complaint. “Dutch met some fellers, figured they could be useful. That ain’t the point. Listen, Arthur. I reckon we can do well in a big city like this. I got some good leads last night.” 

“Why do I get the feeling I ain’t gonna like this?” Arthur asked. Hosea grinned, doing nothing to put him at ease.

“Don’t be so negative, Arthur! I know you never liked cities, but where’s your sense of imagination?” Hosea was definitely ribbing him now. Arthur chose not to rise to the bait. He merely grunted in response, sipping his coffee.

“Feller I met, goes by the name Lunatic Emmett. He said—“

“You’re takin’ leads from someone named Lunatic? This oughta be good.” Arthur grinned at Hosea to show he was joking; really, he was looking forward to working one on one with the old man again. It’d been too long, and too much blood work in between. Hosea smirked back, winding up for a yarn.

“Feller by the name of Lunatic Emmett. He reckons he can get us in with Nate Johns.”

“Nate Johns?”

“Yes, Arthur. Keep up! Nate Johns is the mayor of Blackwater. Our friend Lunatic Emmett says Mr. Philmore, trusted friend and advisor to Nate Johns, owes him a favor. I didn’t ask, and he didn’t offer any details, so don’t ask me what kind of favor a political advisor owes a man named Lunatic Emmett. Thing is, Nate Johns ain’t above ensuring he wins a second term as mayor—by whatever means necessary.”

“What, we gonna go rough some people up?” Arthur asked

“Oh, Arthur. I thought I raised you to be more creative than that! Politics is such a lovely business. In another life, Dutch and I would have made a killing there. Listen, we have a meeting with Mr. Philmore tomorrow. Meet me in the Blackwater Plaza tomorrow at 8 AM.” Hosea instructed him, already walking away.

"Alright. What are you doin' today?" Arthur called after him.

"Today, I'm coming up with our cover story for if we get caught tomorrow!" Hosea called back. Arthur sighed good-naturedly, and went to go groom Boadicea.

//

_November 3, 1898_

Mr. Philmore was a shrewd old man with a mustache. Arthur didn’t spend much of his time thinking on politicians, but if he did, Mr. Philmore was certainly what would come to mind. He met them at 8 o'clock sharp in the Blackwater Plaza. When he approached the two of them, Hosea came alive.

"Ah, Mr. Philmore! I believe this meeting was arranged by our mutual confidant?" Hosea had this way of speaking that made him sound like a carnival barker, and it was a hell of a thing to see in action. Arthur was good at keeping a straight face, stony and silent at his side, thanks to years of practice. But it still amused him all the same. Hosea grabbed Mr. Philmore's hand, shaking it animatedly.

"My name is Harold Michaels, and this is my associate Arthur Callahan. Mr. Emmett informed me you might have some work for men like us, isn't that right sir?" Philmore glanced between the two of them. Whatever this Lunatic Emmett had told him didn't seem to be matching the image he and Hosea were selling, but if the man had any misgivings, he chose not to voice them.

“Ah yes! Mr. Michaels, Mr. Callahan. There is always work to be done in politics, believe you me. I assume I can rely on your discretion?” He asked.

“Oh, my friend, we certainly understand the need for privacy in politics.” Hosea grinned at the man like a shark. Arthur grunted in agreement. Mr. Philmore still looked like he wasn’t quite sure what he was getting himself into.

“The region of West Elizabeth is a bastion of civilization in the West, as you men surely know." Philmore started. "We maintain the highest population closest to the Pacific, and crime is currently at an all time low. In spite of this,” Mr. Philmore’s mustache twitched, like a living thing sharing the irritation of its host, “the citizens of West Elizabeth don’t seem to show nearly enough gratitude to Mayor Johns.”

“People can be so ungrateful.” Arthur sympathized.

“Right you are, Mister Callahan. That’s where you and your associate here come in. We just need you to remind folks that they owe Mayor Johns, and all of us politicians here in Blackwater, for their lovely way of life in West Elizabeth.”

“And how do you propose we do that?” Arthur broke in. He had no patience for the political game, and despite Hosea’s assurances, this was looking starting to like a regular old hit job. 

“My, Mister Callahan! That enthusiasm is just what we need!” Clearly, the man misinterpreted Arthur’s tone. Arthur contemplated smacking him. “You see, Mayor Johns has implemented a program here he likes to call voter confidence. There are, ah, some folks who simply need to be reminded why they should be voting for Mayor Johns, and there’s so much bureaucratic red tape, you see, it’s just easier if no one officially involved with the mayor has a hand in the pot. Mister Michaels, Mister Callahan, you two will be delivering these packages on behalf of the mayor—unofficially, of course.” 

“Of course, sir.” Hosea agreed.

“Yes, here, I’ve got a list of addresses.... not all in Blackwater, mind. But we’ve got some in town, some up in Strawberry, some out at Manzanita...” Philmore produced a list, which he handed to Hosea, who gave it a cursory scan and nodded. Arthur assumed that meant it checked out -- or they were going to wait for Philmore to turn around, and Hosea would hit him over the head with a lead pipe. Arthur figured he'd know it when they got to it.

"Just head on over to the bank, ask for a Mister Samuel Stahlecker. He works with the mayor and I on this program, he'll give you everything you need." Philmore instructed, shaking both their hands. "Mister Michaels, Mister Callahan. It's been a pleasure. Stop by my office when you're done, let me know how you got on. I'll have your money waiting for you."

Good old fashioned bribery. Maybe Hosea had found them a good line of work after all.

//

The job had been so stupidly simple, Arthur had spent the entire time waiting for something to go wrong. In the bank, Hosea had asked the teller if he could speak to Samuel Stahlecker. Mr. Stahlecker, a man who looked too old for his years and like there wasn't enough time in a day, had ushered them into his office not five minutes later, and asked if they were working on the Voter Confidence Program. Hosea had barely had time to confirm that yes, they were, before the man had pulled a stack of envelopes out of his desk, each labeled to match the folks and locations on the list Philmore had given them. He sent them off with the instructions,

" _One_ package per recipient, and _do not_ open the envelopes yourselves." Before he slammed the door to his office. They'd worked out pretty quickly the envelopes were filled with cash. Arthur had suggested just taking the cash and running, but Hosea shot the idea down.

"This isn't a one time opportunity, Arthur. If I understand Lunatic Emmett correctly, they'll pay us much more than this," he gestured at the envelopes in Arthur's hand, "just to deliver them, and there will be plenty more employment opportunities from them in the future. Plus, you never know how useful an in with the mayor will be." And so Arthur had conceded, and the two had ridden all over the state, dropping off envelopes and reminding people which vote would ensure more where that came from. When they'd met Mr. Philmore in his office late that afternoon, he had seemed surprised they were done so quickly.

"I knew I could count on the two of you! Trustworthy men if I've ever seen them!" and he'd handed Hosea a stack of bills that totaled out to over five hundred dollars, with the promise of more work come springtime, when the next round of votes would be cast. All in all, a ridiculously easy job for a ridiculously high payoff. Arthur was grateful Hosea’d pulled him in on this — wondered if he’d sensed, in that shrewd fatherly way, that Arthur needed a break. He could only do so many stick ‘em ups with Bill before he got tired of it, needed something else to do. Hosea’d always been best at understanding that. And while not nearly as far west as they wanted to be, West Elizabeth was beautiful country to spend the day riding through, and Hosea was good company besides.

It was evening, and the two men rode into camp expecting a fresh bowl of Pearson’s stew -- tired in the way only a day in the saddle would leave them. Dinnertime was always the time of day most folks were in camp, eating and gathered around the various tables and campfires, but tonight it seemed too crowded. Folks all seemed to converge around Dutch’s tent, looking on with eager eyes. John was sitting by the hitching posts, repeater in hand, on watch and apparently waiting on them.

“Dutch wants to see you two. Brought some new feller in. I think he seems decent, but he wants you two to meet him before he offers him a place to stay.” John got real sour at that, like he was mad Dutch wouldn’t make decisions on his word alone.

Hosea clapped John on the shoulder as he passed. “Right you are, John. We’ll check him out.” Arthur merely grunted. It weren’t that he didn’t trust John, exactly; whatever their differences, John’d had the same upbringing, and he’d made it this far. It was more the fact that coming from John Marston, decent could mean smart and hard working, like Lenny and Javier; or it could very well mean not apt to kill anyone in their sleep, or rat the gang out to the law and not good for much beyond that, like Strauss and Uncle. It was hard to say, and Arthur would reserve his judgement until he met the man himself. Dutch, well... Dutch had brought in all manner of folks. He’d brought in Lenny and Javier; he’d also brought in Uncle and Strauss. It was clear as day John was Dutch’s son. 

Dutch’s tent was located at the head of the campsite, the eye of the storm of tents and bedrolls and campfires, wagons and people and crates of whiskey and cans and ammunition. Hosea held the white canvas aside so he and Arthur could enter. The inside of Dutch’s tent was as opulent as ever, with his gramophone atop the writing desk, rich rugs and tapestries and pelts adorning every surface. Dutch was sitting on a crate, while the stranger in question sat uneasily in the writing chair at the desk, facing Dutch. Both men looked up as Arthur and Hosea made their entrance.

“Hosea, Arthur, meet my new friend here, Charles Smith! Charles, this here’s my long time business partner, Hosea Matthews, and that big lug there is Arthur Morgan.” Charles rose, and handshakes were exchanged, and Arthur sized up this prospective new gang member, Charles Smith. 

He was big, easily Arthur’s height and maybe a tad broader. He was clearly of native heritage—his long, silky dark hair was partially tied back, with an eagle feather braided into the front; but something about his features said he had black ancestors as well. Didn't matter much to Arthur, beyond his own curiosity. His hands were warm, broad and calloused, and his handshake was strong. Despite his stature, the man didn’t strike Arthur as dangerous, or even as an outlaw. He seemed wary, and itching to be out of this tent and away from these loud strangers—but still calm, almost serene in the knowledge of his own competence. Arthur watched the man, the way his clear eyes moved smoothly from Dutch, to Hosea, to Arthur, seeming to be taking everything in as Dutch and Hosea talked to him about the gang. Arthur hadn’t made it this far in life by overthinking things — and he couldn't see a single reason not to trust this Mister Smith, other than maybe wonder what it was about a bunch of criminals that appealed to him. And then Charles turned his head, and Arthur noticed a spiderweb of scar tissue along the left side of his jaw. Arthur knew better than anyone the cruelties of life -- they'd all come together, strays and outcasts, to find a home and a family in this wreck of a world. If this quiet eyed stranger wanted a place among them, he deserved a chance at the very least.

“Take Charles out there and get him acquainted with the camp, Arthur. Don’t let that lot out there get to him too badly.” Dutch chuckled, and Arthur felt a slight flush of guilt at not listening to whatever he’d been saying. He tore his eyes away from Charles to meet Hosea’s gaze, and gave him a slight but clear nod. An acceptance, an endorsement; Hosea would understand what he meant.

Arthur held the canvas aside, allowing Charles to duck out after him. Hosea called out after them.

“Charles can bunk with Lenny and I!” Arthur snorted, and thought he could see the faintest trace of a smile on Charles’s face. He turned away, and led Charles through the camp; giving him a brief tour as he went.

“Here’s Pearson’s wagon, where we keep all the food. If you hunt, you can drop off any extras over there. Campfire, scout fire, medicine wagon, Strauss’s tent, ammo wagon, my tent, John’s tent...” He felt silly, rambling on about the day to day rhythms of their camp, but Charles didn’t offer much in the way of conversation besides soft sounds to show he was listening. Arthur was fairly certain he’d met trees with more to say, and had a brief laugh at the thought of Hosea sharing a tent with the man. More power to them both.

As they walked, folk came up and introduced themselves; Charles was cautiously polite, taking it all in. Arthur almost felt bad for the deluge of information. Little Jack Marston approached Arthur and the newcomer with a stick in one hand, all gap toothed smile and bare feet.

"Hello! Will you be staying with us now?" Jack asked. Arthur paused, watching to see how this would play out. However unintentional, this was a test, of sorts. Charles, to his credit, didn't seem confused by a little boy in the midst of an outlaw gang. Though, Arthur supposed if he were, he wouldn't give that away.

"I believe I am for now, yes. What's you name?"

"My name's Jack! Who are you?"

"I'm Charles." And this big bear of a man crouched down to Jack's level and extended a hand. Jack dropped his stick and grabbed Charles's proffered hand with both of his, shaking it vigorously.

"Uncle Arthur told me a strong handshake is real important, so I look strong too!" Jack grinned at Charles, who chuckled at the boy.

"You did real good. That's a nice strong shake you've got there." Charles straightened back up, and Jack beamed up at him like he'd just set the sun ablaze. It felt like it should mean something to Arthur, but all he could think was that this Charles Smith feller had just earned his trust.

Jack scampered off at Abigail’s call, and Arthur led Charles to the tent Hosea shared with Lenny and Bill. 

“And this is where you’ll be sleepin’.” Arthur announced, gesturing to the open space. He felt inadequate suddenly, like a patch of dirt under a tent was a shameful thing to offer, when it was all most of them had. “I think we got an extra bedroll or two around here somewhere...” Charles waved a hand noncommittally. 

“I’ve got one on my horse.”

“Ah. Right. Sorry.” This man and his stonewall silence must be making Arthur look like even more of a fool than usual. He cast about for an escape. “Well, uh. You get settled now. I’ll be seein’ you.” Arthur tilted his hat down over his eyes and made his escape. If his walk to the stew pot was a bit faster than normal, well, folk knew better than to say anything. He was halfway across camp too quickly to hear Charles’s murmured “Thank you, Arthur.”


	2. Blackwater II: On The Run

_May 10, 1899_

Two days they’d been on the run. The robbery on the Blackwater Ferryboat was a heist that had been in motion for a few months, now. Last December, not long after Charles had joined the gang, Dutch rode off for a few days and returned with a man in tow named Micah Bell. That part weren't a shock, not really — Charles himself had been picked up by Dutch just a month prior. From his brief time in the gang, he'd gotten the impression Dutch fancied himself some type of savior. Charles had seen that firsthand when Dutch had threatened those men in Blackwater, following him into the alley that cool autumn night. Dutch had scared them away and promised him a place among folk who didn't much care who his parents were, or the color of his skin. And Charles could have handled those men himself, he'd fared better with worse odds, but the feeling of someone having his back was so novel he'd paused, willing to hear this stranger out.

"You look like you can handle yourself just fine, Mister...?" Dutch had started off with.

"Smith." Helpful or not, Charles had still been wary, but when a man saves you a fight, it does well to be gracious.

"Mister Smith. I have a proposition for you." And maybe Charles had just been on his own for too damn _long,_ but despite his hesitance, the thought of people pulled him along after this opulently-dressed, silver-tongued man, with his promises of nothing much more than family. _Family._ Charles had lost his tribe, lost his parents. He wasn't sure family was something that could just be _found_ , like a mistakenly cast aside trinket. But he'd put that aside to try. And the folk Dutch had brought him home to had been kind, and accepting. All manner of folk, and all they asked of him was honest (or, not so honest, depending who asked) work; it had pleased Charles to use his hunting to feed a big group. That was how it had always been intended, the way his mother had taught him. When he'd stopped in Blackwater, Charles had found himself thinking of her, more than usual. His mother's tribe had been Lakota; their home had been a place much like the Great Plains here in West Elizabeth. He remembered little things — the way the midday sun turned the plains into a dusty smudge on the horizon. He remembered the prairie grass, and his mother braiding the flowers into her hair. He remembered voices, and faces, and buffalo hides stretched over tipi poles. He had long since stopped searching through those memories — he accepted they were gone, and he had no way to find them again. But then he'd wandered into a place that felt too full of ghosts for a land he had no recollection of, and stumbled into _something._ Yes, Charles had lost his tribe, his people, his family. But loneliness had settled on him like a hide, and he found himself choking. He followed Dutch.

And things had been fine, and he'd been settling in, and then Dutch went off and did whatever Dutch does out of camp, and returned with a new recruit. Micah Bell was a man Charles knew well despite having never met him before. He was mean, and nasty, and he didn't seem all that concerned with hiding it. That was what had struck Charles as odd. These outlaws prided themselves on their moral code, and Charles had watched Arthur scribbling away in his journal; Hosea teaching Jack to read; he'd watched John listening to Javier's wistful reminiscence of Mexico with compassion. And Charles had taken it all in, and he'd thought Micah Bell would find no place among these folks. And then Micah had ridden in to camp another month gone by full of self importance, bringing Dutch news of a ferry coming into Blackwater laden with money, and that had been that.

At the beginning of planning, Charles had been grateful for his role. He wasn't to take part in the actual robbery. He was one of the men due to stay in camp, ready to run at a moment's notice if things went south. Protect the women, protect Jack. He'd chalked it up to his short time with the gang, or maybe Micah not liking him much. He didn't care either way; Charles wasn't a man to go looking for violence. He had noticed, of course, the tension leading up to the robbery. Late nights on watch yielded a private view of Hosea in Dutch's tent, arguing about the intel, about the plan, about the robbery itself. As the date had drawn closer, Hosea had been more vocal, questioning Dutch openly, with Arthur backing him. That part had surprised him — Hosea was sharp as a whip and as shrewd as a buzzard, but Arthur rarely had much to say. He was always more of a presence — large and imposing at Dutch and Hosea’s side, one part of a whole. More myth than man, to the folks in the gang. To see him break rank so openly was jarring, and it made Charles warier about the plan itself. John had told him one night, passing on the watch shift to Charles, that this would be the first big job Dutch ran without Hosea and Arthur. That felt like a bad omen if he'd ever heard one, and despite not saying it outright, John had seemed cagey about it too. And as it turned out, Hosea and Arthur had been right. At the sound of gunfire, Susan had sent him into town to see what was going on, and he'd been just in time to grab Arthur when Boadicea went down, blasting the skull of the Pinkerton who'd done it to shrapnel as he passed. Arthur and Hosea had been on the opposite side of the city, drawn in as Charles had by the sound of gunfire. Of those actually involved in the robbery, Jenny was dead, Davey was dying, Mac and Sean were unaccounted for, and Dutch, Micah, Bill, and Javier were not offering any details up. And now they were on the run, with Blackwater two days behind them, and the details of what exactly had gone wrong on the boat still as clear as mud. Charles was on the run, and he'd like to know exactly why.

The gang was somewhere on the state line of North Elizabeth and Ambarino by now. Before the robbery, they'd had a plethora of escape routes scouted, planned, mapped, and memorized. Somehow, the Pinkertons had managed to block every route headed south or west, leaving their only option to run north into the mountains. Dutch and Hosea had argued a bit, whether to turn west once they crossed into North Elizabeth and try to circle around the Pinkertons, or to head east towards the Grizzlies. Dutch had won that battle, arguing they had no way to know how far northwest the Pinkerton patrols would range. Now they were progressing slowly into the mountains, cold, starving, bearing their dead along with them. Charles was riding in the wagon with Davey in it; he was still breathing, but Charles had seen the wound. He would be dead soon. He wondered briefly if it wouldn’t be kinder to put him out of his misery, but didn’t exactly want to be the one to raise the issue. Morale was low enough after Jenny had passed, back by the West Elizabeth state line. They needed to bury her, but their scouts insisted they couldn’t stop yet. 

Speaking of scouts, at that moment Arthur rode back up to the convoy — visible on Taima's familiar form, briefly, as he passed by. Charles was close enough to hear his report to Dutch and Hosea, riding on the front wagon.

“Roads clear as far back as Owanjila. I think they’ve lost the trail, or they’re pulling back to regroup.” Arthur sounded exhausted, and Charles felt pity for him. After insisting a job was a bad idea, seeing it fail and suffering for it had to be something bitter. Charles had to credit him for not pointing that out to Dutch yet. Charles had had his own doubts too, privately. But that had mostly been limited to the men on the ferry not making it back off alive. Not this; he’d never imagined anything like this. 

“Reckon we can stop to sleep for a few hours, bury Jenny.” Arthur’s voice hardened — clearly, he was angry at the amount of people they’d lost. 

“As soon as we cross into Ambarino we’ll stop and make camp.” That was Hosea. He sounded as worn as Arthur.

Charles sighed and tried to stop eavesdropping. The only other people in this wagon were Abigail, Jack, and a few of the girls; none paid him any mind. He felt cramped and restless riding in a wagon and not on Taima, but he’d lent her to Arthur after his horse had been shot. Boadicea had been a good mare, a sweet little mustang, and if his impression of Arthur was correct, her loss was a painful one for him.

“Mama, I’m hungry!” Jack’s voice was thin and reedy after so many days of crying. Charles glanced over at him, clinging to Abigail’s leg. There was a man dying of gutshot not three feet from him, and the boy didn’t seem to register that. Charles wondered what a four year old would know of death — he then revised that thought, wondering what a four year old raised in a gang would know of death. 

“I know baby. As soon as we stop, I’ll try to get you something to eat, but for now you gotta rest.” Abigail soothed, somehow managing to sound comforting in spite of the stress. The strength of motherhood never ceased to amaze.

“But mama it hurts!” Jack’s distress apparently carried over the wind, because Taima’s familiar face appeared at the back of the wagon. Arthur tossed a can lightly to Abigail. 

“See baby, your uncle Arthur got you some canned strawberries. Can you say thank you?” Abigail asked Jack, patient as anything.

“Thanks Uncle Arthur!” Jack’s tiny voice seemed to please Arthur. Charles thought he could see the ghost of a smile, the one he always seemed to have for little Jack Marston, under that leather stetson. Snow was beginning to fall, sticking in clusters to Arthur’s coat, gathering on the brim of his hat. Taima’s mane held clumps of ice, and her and Arthur’s breaths merged in a fog in front of them. He raised a hand in response before riding out of sight again, back into the cold. Charles tugged his coat closer to himself and tried to put that interaction out of his head, wanting to get some rest while he could.

_May 11, 1899_

They’d set up camp in Spider Gorge. It wasn’t much of a camp, really — everyone was crowded either into the wagons or under the one tent they’d dared to pitch — not even a tent, just some canvas strung between two wagons. Snow was beginning to fall more thickly, still not sticking to the ground but enough to make visibility low and temperatures lower. But still, they didn’t chance lighting a fire. The gang huddled together for warmth, miserable and terrified. Davey was still hanging on, but even with the cold the wound had begun to rot. The smell of infection made Charles nauseous, so he set himself on guard duty, opposite of Bill. Arthur and Lenny had gone to bury Jenny some time before, and the tension of waiting for their return kept the two guards from speaking. Not that there was much to say, anyway. Charles was fairly certain Bill didn’t like him, and he didn’t care enough for Bill to wonder at the reasoning for that. From his first days in the gang, Charles had gotten the distinct impression Bill was an idiot, and time had done nothing to change his mind. Charles heard the sound of a match being struck, followed by a golden spill of light surrounding them. 

“What are you doing?” Charles asked impatiently. On the run, chased by Pinkerton’s, and Bill had the bright idea to light a _lantern_.

“I’m fucking cold, and we can’t light a fire, I gotta do something over here, Charles.” Bill’s patronizing tone was irritating. Charles wondered how angry the others would be if he killed Bill. The man had been with them for a handful of years, from what Charles understood. Maybe it wasn’t the best idea. Where Bill and Charles sat, the gangs wagons and horses were hidden from the road behind a rock outcropping — something Charles was suddenly, intensely grateful for, because the sound of hooves crunching on the icy trail reached his ears, and those were definitely not Taima and Maggie—

—Charles thrust his hand into the lantern to smother the flame as he ducked into cover. The fragile glass panel of the lantern shattered under his hand. Fortunately Bill had the good sense to react and did the same, moving behind the rocks in a movement more graceful than anything Bill normally did. Their eyes met, and Charles held a finger to his lips just as two horses rounded the trail, coming into view. Their riders were clearly Pinkertons, still dressed smartly despite being bundled against the weather.

“We haven’t seen any sign of them in miles, what makes you so sure they’re out here?”

“Milton swears all the routes west were blocked, and they sure as hell didn’t escape to the bottom of Flat Iron. Where else would they go? Atlantis?”

“Van der Linde’s a slippery motherfucker. God only knows what they did. Wouldn’t surprise me if he had some hidden tunnel dug under Blackwater.”

“He’s just a criminal, Jackson. Don’t turn him into something more than he is. He’s smart, and he’s slipped away plenty of times, but he’s still only a man. And all men make mistakes eventually. The biggest mistake we can make is believing him to be some kind of a phantom.”

They passed within a few feet of the gangs camp none the wiser, and continued down the trail. As soon as their voices had faded, Charles let out the grunt of pain he’d been holding in.

“Stay on watch.” Not giving Bill a chance to respond, Charles returned to the wagons. His rifling through the medical supplies woke Hosea, which he took for a good thing anyway, loathe as he was to disturb the man. Hosea sat himself on the back of the wagon, wordlessly taking a hold of Charles’s palm, inspecting the damage.

“Spotted a couple Pinkertons passing by. They seemed sure we were out here somewhere.” Charles informed him as Hosea worked.

“Did they see you?” Hosea didn’t look up from Charles’s palm, pressing at the sides of the burn. Charles managed not to wince.

“Of course not.”

Hosea hummed a quiet laugh. “I suppose I more meant did they see Bill.” Hosea frowned. “I think there’s glass in this.” He turned to the crate beside him, rifling through it. He produced tweezers, a roll of bandages, a dusty bundle of herbs and a whiskey bottle with just about two fingers left.

“Yeah. Bill had lit a lantern. I had to put it out before the Pinkertons could see it—“ A wince, as Hosea tugged a sliver of glass out of his palm. “—fortunately, Bill had the sense to duck in cover too.” _Plink, plink_. More shards of glass dropped onto the wagon beside Hosea as he extracted them from Charles’s flesh.

“Stupid as he may be, he’s made it this far.” Hosea pressed on the sides of the wound again, and made a satisfied noise. “That’s the last of the glass. I’ll get you fixed up.” Charles made to protest, but Hosea pinned him with a stern look. “Even you would be hard pressed to bandage your hand on your own, Mister Smith.” For a moment, he reminded Charles of Arthur, the stubborn set to his jaw and the shape of his mouth as he said _Mister Smith_. Charles suppressed a laugh. 

“Alright, alright. Thank you, Hosea.” Hosea dashed the last of the whiskey over the burn, and Charles hissed at the sting. Hosea began mashing some herbs for a poultice. Charles flexed his hand, trying to fight the stiffness already setting in. Hosea was humming softly to himself as he worked, and the soft murmurs and rustles of the gang sleeping a few feet away provided a soothing background noise. Despite being on the run, Charles felt a sense of peace. Of home. Maybe falling in with these folks had been the right call, after all...in spite of everything.

Hosea began gingerly dabbing the poultice onto Charles’s palm as hoofbeats sounded the return of Lenny and Arthur. They looked tired as they dismounted, loosing their horses into the herd. Charles bit back a grin at how Taima nosed Arthur’s palm before ambling away, receiving a peppermint for her troubles. Clearly, Arthur’d been spoiling her. As if the man could feel eyes on him, Arthur turned and made his way over to them, frowning. Lenny raised a hand halfheartedly in greeting as he passed, looking exhausted and ducking behind the canvas of the tent.

“Y’alright, Charles?” Arthur asked as he approached. Charles felt compelled to shoot the same question back — Arthur looked like hell. His blue winter coat was caked in ice, and the sliver of his face visible between the sheepskin collar of his coat and the rim of his hat was red with cold and windburn. 

“Fine. It was just a stupid mistake.” Charles replied, feeling foolish. They didn't need to be down another man right now.

“Well, it was more of Bill’s stupid mistake.” Hosea piped up. “Apparently there were Pinkertons patrolling the roads, while Bill thought lighting a lantern was a good idea.” He began winding a bandage around Charles’s palm, tying it off in a knot at the space where his thumb met his palm. 

“To be fair—“ Charles looked up from Hosea’s handiwork to meet Arthur’s eyes. “It was a stupid mistake on my part to trust anything Bill does.” Arthur laughed, as an indignant “ _I heard that_!” floated from the other side of the rocks, which only made Arthur laugh harder. It warmed something in Charles to see some of the weight lift off of Arthur. Charles hadn’t spent too much time with Arthur since he’d joined the gang, but he’d come to respect him. The man played tough, imposing, silent muscle, and everyone in the gang seemed to look to him in this way incomparable to anything. Dutch was their leader, by and away, but there was just something about Arthur. Charles reckoned there was more to this man than met the eye, and that made him curious. Charles wanted to know what he was hiding behind that _big, dumb, and mean_ façade of his.

“Okay you two—time for bed.” Hosea announced, gathering up the bandages and placing them back in the wagon.

“I can finish my watch—“ Charles began.

“I could finish Charles’s watch since he’s hurt—“ Arthur cut Charles off.

“Enough! Both of you. Bill can finish out the night since it’s his fault Charles is hurt. And Arthur, you’re dead on your feet. Come on.” Hosea’s tone brooked no argument, and Charles had to admit getting some rest sounded better than sitting out in the cold with Bill. He relented and murmured a quiet goodnight as he ducked into the tent, while Arthur followed Hosea into one of the wagons. As Charles settled down to sleep, the wind outside picked up to a steady howl, and the snowfall started to stick to the ground in drifts. 


	3. Colter I: Food for Thought

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is mostly dialogue which I struggle with, even though its mostly in game dialogue there were some minor changes. I just wanted to see this from Charles’s perspective 😳

_May 13, 1899_

Charles woke with the sunrise. His hand still hurt, and he could scarcely use it, but he was far too restless to sleep in. He emerged from the cabin he’d shared with Micah, Bill, Javier, and Lenny, careful to shut the door without waking them. Things had been rough, the past few days. They’d arrived in Colter the following night after Charles had burned his hand. Cold, starving, desperate—this dusty, abandoned mining town had looked like an oasis. Davey had died, the moment they unloaded him from the wagon. Javier and Arthur had buried him in the graveyard beside the dilapidated old church. His grave among the long forgotten, tumbled over graves of forgotten people was a sad sight, made more bitter by the distinct absence of his brother. Charles thought it a sad end for a vicious man. Almost as soon as Davey was in the ground, Dutch had called Arthur away, returning hours later with Micah and a grieving widow, bearing supplies and the news that O'Driscolls were in the area. The woman — Sadie Adler, she'd told them — had cried through the night, her mournful sobs a bleak echo of the whole gang's mood. Charles stayed away from her, both out of respect for the trauma she'd assuredly just endured and out of the knowledge he would be of no comfort to her. But from the brief sight he'd gotten of the woman, something about the way she looked — the set of her shoulder, the look in her eyes — reminded Charles of his father. He ached for this stranger and her unfathomable pain. The sun had barely risen on Colter the following morning when Javier and Arthur had gone out at Abigail and Hosea's behest, concerned over John's absence. When they’d arrived with John slung over the back of Boaz, frozen and mauled by wolves, Charles had assumed they’d be burying him beside Davey. He’d made it through the night, though, which was a good sign. Maybe that was a good omen for the rest of them. Needless to say, it had been a gruelingly chaotic few days. Everyone's nerves were stretched like piano wires, ready to sing. 

The sunrise on the snow was certainly beautiful, but Charles wasn’t one for the cold. He trudged across the camp, shouldering the door to the decrepit barn open. He had found the barn the safest place to spend his time over the past few days, away from the tensions among the others. There was still some hay in the barn loft, which he got to work spreading for them. He melted some snow over the fire to water them, and checked for injuries. They’d pushed the horses hard, fleeing Blackwater as they had. Charles wanted to make sure they were doing okay now that the people were safe—or, as safe as they could be. He brushed some of the old blood off of Boaz’s coat, left from ferrying John back. He rubbed a bit of leftover poultice Hosea had made for his burn onto a scratch on Silver Dollar’s hock, and the rest onto Baylock's tight fetlock. The routine of caring for the horses, listening to their snorts and grunts and stamping hooves, surrounded by warmth and horseflesh, put Charles at ease. This was something he understood. The horses didn’t lie, or have ulterior motives. The horses simply were. Eventually Taima wandered over and nosed at his pockets. 

“I see Arthur’s kept you supplied with treats, huh?” She continued her inspection, reacquainting herself with Charles after a few days under a different rider. “I wouldn’t let someone else ride you who I wasn’t sure would treat you right, girl.” Realizing Charles didn’t have anything for her, she moved away, returning to the hay on the floor. Voices rose on the far side of the barn wall.

“We have a few cans of food and a rabbit. For what? 10, 12 people?” Pearson’s complaint cut through the early morning air. “When I was in the Navy...”

“I do not wish to hear about what you got up to in the Navy, Mister Pearson.” That was Arthur. Charles tried to ignore them. It felt like he always was too aware of what Arthur was saying. Charles wasn’t stupid—He knew himself, knew his own mind. The physical attraction to Arthur had been instantaneous, that day in Dutch’s tent. But he didn’t know Arthur, not really; wasn’t sure if that gentle love he held for Jack and the women and the horses could ever extend to him. Certainly wasn’t worth risking his place in the gang to find out. Pearson’s voice broke him out of his thoughts.

“We were stranded at sea for fifty days!” Clearly, he wasn’t listening to Arthur.

“And you unfortunately survived.” Arthur was toying with the man. Had to be. Charles dropped a final pat on Taima’s rump and quietly exited the barn, skirting around the building. Their voices still carried to him.

“When we ran away from Blackwater, I wasn't able to get supplies in.” Pearson’s voice was bordering on a whine now.

“Well when government agents are hunting you down, sometimes shopping trips need to be cut short! We'll survive. We always have. And if needs be, we can eat you... you're the fattest.” Arthur was definitely ribbing Pearson. Charles wondered what had changed to put him in a good enough mood to tease after the past couple of days.

Charles rounded the building, bringing them into view. Pearson was holding his ground. Arthur was warming his hands by the fire, still bundled in his shotgun coat. He gave Charles a nod as he took a spot by the fire beside Arthur. The heat eased some of the tension out of his hand that had been locked stiff in its bandages for the past few days. 

“I sent Lenny and Bill hunting and they found nothing!” That got a laugh out of Arthur.

“Well, Lenny's more into book reading than hunting. Bill's a fool.” He stopped, gesturing out of the shelter, to the peaks visible in the distance. “Unless those mountains are full of game that wanna read... well, ain't no wonder they found—“

“Enough of this.” Charles cut in, giving Pearson a look and turning out of the shed. He didn’t see the point in standing there complaining about a lack of food when they could go find some. “Come on, Arthur.” 

“Wait, hold on a second.” Pearson tossed some kind of jar at Arthur, who snagged it on instinct. Charles paused, wondering what he was sparing for them if food was so scarce. “Here. You’re gonna need something out there.” Arthur turned the jar in his hands, examining the label. 

“Assorted, salted offal.” He glanced at Charles. “Starving would be preferable.” Charles snorted. He felt tense, trapped in the snow and close quarters. He felt tense listening to Arthur’s jokes and Pearson’s whining. He felt tense being unable to use his hand. He wanted to do something, turn this pointless energy into something productive.

“Come on, let’s go.” He wanted to get out. He told himself it was restlessness, not a desire to ride out with Arthur. He almost believed it. Arthur’s hand on his shoulder stopped him.

“You can’t go hunting. Look at your hand.” Charles inclined his head slightly, not looking directly at Arthur. He thought about taking a knife to Bill’s hands. That would surely make them even.

“I can't stay here listening to you two. Look, if there's game in these hills I'll find it. And you can kill it.” Charles could see the gears turning in Arthur’s head. He wondered, not for the first time, what the man was thinking. Arthur’s face creased. He looked worried.

“You need to rest, Charles.” His concern stopped Charles, brought him up short. He remembered briefly how he had wondered if that fierce love Arthur seemed to have for the gang would ever extend to include him. Charles pushed the thought aside. He wasn’t in the mood to be forgiving, not while he was still stuck in this camp.

“You think this is rest?” Charles asked, gesturing to the camp; the claustrophobic cabins, the oppressive layer of snow, the group of starving, miserable people. He began walking again, more quickly this time. “Come along.” 

Charles continued towards the barn to retrieve Taima and the new horse Arthur had brought back from the Adler homestead. With the delicate nature of their stay here, all the horses had remained tacked up. It was simply a matter of tightening their cinches and unknotting their reins. The pinto gelding seemed agreeable enough—he’d be fine for this outing. Taima seemed pleased to have Charles back. Arthur had appeared from the shed and was waiting for him by the hitching posts. Charles handed Arthur his geldings reins, then removed his bow from Taima’s saddle and handed it over as well. Arthur accepted it as warily as if Charles was handing him a live snake.

“Here, you take this. I can’t use it, and you’ll have to.” Charles said. Arthur was still staring at him.

“Oh, you’re joking.”

“Use a gun, and you’ll scare off every animal for miles around.” Done arguing, Charles mounted Taima and glanced over at Arthur, mounting his own horse. “You’re never too old to learn... I imagine.” Arthur didn’t offer any response. Charles sighed, and he wondered what it would take to get to know the man. Arthur was about as reticent as a brick wall. 

“Alright, let’s head out.” Charles pushed Taima into a trot down the road. He heard Arthur following behind. As they left Colter behind them, Arthur let his pinto gelding fall in alongside Taima.

They rode in agreeable silence for a ways, Charles scanning the landscape. There was a river not far away, and Charles figured any animals in the area would stop there for a drink.

“How are you holding up, Charles?” Arthur’s voice broke the comfortable silence between the two—Charles had been so intent on scanning for tracks, he’d nearly forgotten Arthur was beside him. Nearly.

“I'm okay, apart from this hand. Stupid mistake.” Charles yet again cursed Bill internally. These folks didn’t seem the type to cut someone loose for showing weakness, but... Old habits.

“Still bad?” Arthur asked.

“It will be fine in a day or two. I just can’t pull a bow right now.” Charles responded. Arthur’s concern was much less grating outside of the claustrophobia of the camp. Charles felt warmer than he had since they’d entered the mountains.

“I sure hope I can. I never really got the hang of it.” Arthur sounded unsure. Charles cast back, remembering his mother’s lessons when he was young. 

“You’ll be fine.” Charles replied.

“So... you reckon we're gonna find something to kill than ain't an O'Driscoll?” Arthur asked.

Charles snorted. “There's meat up here for sure. Pearson doesn't know what he's talking about. Now the weather's eased off a bit, they'll be needing to feed.” They continued on, Charles scanning for signs of life, Arthur following along.

“We'll head up this way. Find some higher ground.” Charles explained as Arthur followed behind him. He’d never taught someone else to hunt before.

“Been a wild few days alright. That ride north from Blackwater, getting stuck in this storm, bringing John back in...” Arthur sounded troubled. Charles wondered, briefly, if this was another crack in the façade. 

“You've had a lot put on you. I wish I could have done more.” Charles replied. He found he meant it. He was starting to realize Arthur carried the weight of the world — at least the gang’s world — on his shoulders. Even a man like him would need help, eventually.

“Ah, I didn't mean it like that, just... a lot to think back on.” Arthur replied, still sounding troubled.

“I still don't really know what happened on that boat.” Charles said curiously. He wondered if Dutch had told Arthur.

“Me neither. Well, Javier told me a bit, but... it sure weren't good.” So that answered that. It must have been pretty bad then. They continued through the trees, and Charles noticed some holes in the snow.

“See some of the ground uncovered here? That’s from animals looking for food. Come on, let's try this way. Keep your eyes peeled for movement.” Charles turned off the trail, following the sound of the river towards a copse of trees, weighted down with snow. The land beyond the trees rose in a steady incline. 

“The wind's died down too.” Charles stated. He scanned the treeline, looking for signs of life.

“And that's good?” Arthur asked. His curiosity warmed Charles in the same way his concern had.

“No wind at all is bad, but if it's too strong, they won't move. Now, shh...stay quiet.” He glanced at Arthur, who was watching him seriously. Finally, Charles noticed a blemish in the snow, winding between the trees. It was only visible from the faintest shadow thrown by the edge of the imprint. He drew Taima to a halt.

“Hey—stop here a second.” Charles dismounted and dropped into a crouch, examining the tracks. Arthur dismounted as well but hung back, letting Charles work. “I see something. There's deer been here...recently.”

“How can you tell?”

“How can you not?” Charles asked, gesturing to the trail. Arthur was staring directly at the tracks — certainly he had to see them. “We'll track them on foot. You're going to need the bow, don't leave it on your horse.” Charles looked at Arthur. “A gun will scare everything around.” 

“Yeah, yeah, I heard ya.” Arthur grumbled, but there was no real heat to it. Charles heard the creak of leather and yew wood as Arthur complied, drawing the bow from his saddle. Charles had made that bow himself, after coming across a downed yew tree after a storm. The tree had fallen recently enough that it was still alive, and the wood had been strong. He’d dried and carved the wood, stained it with crushed yew berries from the same tree. The cord he’d made with sinew from the leg of a buck he’d taken down. The bow wasn’t the first he’d ever made, but making it himself carried the memories of his mother; the echoes of her people working through his hands, the stories she’d told him as she’d taught. He glanced over his shoulder to see it in Arthur’s hands — despite his self proclaimed inexperience, it looked natural in his hands. Charles decided he would craft a new bow for himself as soon as they were off of the mountain, with his mother’s words in his head.

_Teaching is the best way to love._

The two crept through the snow, with Charles occasionally stopping to ask if Arthur could see the trail, explaining the various signs of deer passing by. 

“Quiet as you can. Stay low, and move slowly.” The teaching was mostly done in hushed whispers and subtle gestures, but Arthur seemed to be a quick pupil. “You see the tracks?” Charles asked.

“I think so. Maybe not.” Arthur replied.

“Focus. It's easier in the snow but, once you get your eye in, you'll be able to track nearly as well in grass and woods.” At Charles’s instruction, Arthur took a breath, searching the snow. He nodded and began moving forward, slowly following the tracks. Charles was privately impressed at how quickly he adapted to slinking through the landscape silently. _We’ll make a hunter of you yet._

They broke the treeline and the river finally came into view. Charles spotted a few does, placidly drinking. He tapped Arthur’s shoulder.

“Shh. Down there, you see them?” A nod in his peripheral vision. Reverent silence. “Are you ready with that bow?” Arthur knocked an arrow, holding the bow out in front of him. Charles crept closer, slotting himself behind Arthur and placing a hand firmly on his wrist, guiding him.

“You wanna hold the arch of the bow against your shoulder — let your body do the work. Don’t overthink it.” He glanced up; Arthur’s eyes were still on the deer. “Just aim, breathe, and let fly on empty lungs.” Arthur chuckled; so quietly Charles wouldn’t have noticed if he weren’t close enough to feel the man’s rumbling laugh through his coat. Warmth hung between them — the broad curve of Arthur's spine grazed Charles's chest. He reminded himself to breathe.

“Just like shootin’ a gun, then, huh?” He whispered. Charles released his wrist, pulled back.

“Try to hit them in the head or neck. Quick and clean.” Charles murmured. Arthur inhaled, tugging the bowstring back. “You can pull back quite hard, you'll feel when it's too much.” Another quiet nod, and the tensing of the bowstring. The doe Arthur had singled out raised her head, water dripping from her muzzle — The picture of placid innocence. “Now, Arthur.” Arthur exhaled, and the near silent whoosh of the arrow was the only warning before the doe dropped. The other three ran off downstream. The arrow stuck directly in her eye socket — a perfectly clean kill. Again, Charles was impressed.

“Good shot. Now, let's try for another.” Charles hung back more this time, and Arthur took the lead. They followed the tracks downstream where the rest of the does had run off to. Arthur took the second down as nearly as the first, and Charles wondered how he could have done poorly on previous attempts.

“Okay, that'll do it. I think that's all we can carry.” Charles said. He approached the deer carcass, pulling the arrow free of her eye and handing it back to Arthur. “Okay, I’ve got this one. You grab the other.” Before Charles could grab the deer, Arthur stepped closer, hand on his shoulder. 

“You sure your hand's okay?” Charles had forgotten the injury. He flexed his hand.

“I'll be fine once I get it on my shoulder.” They stowed their deer and mounted up, setting off for camp. Arthur let out a low chuckle. “I told Pearson Bill was a fool.” Charles raised his injured hand in agreement. Again the two fell into an easy silence. This time, Charles was the one to break it.

“Nice work, Arthur. Should be enough meat here to keep us all fed for a few days.” At the praise, Arthur tucked his chin to his chest, hiding his face. Charles wished he could see his face.

“You found 'em.” Arthur deflected.

“I knew you'd be okay with that bow.” Charles pressed on. 

“It's easier when they ain't shooting back.” Arthur replied drily. That got a warm laugh out of Charles.

“We’ve seen enough of that.” Charles replied.

“Considering how things were looking a couple of days back, maybe our luck is finally on the turn.” Arthur said. 

“Seems to me we should be putting our effort into getting off this mountain now.” Charles glared disdainfully at the snow around them. Arthur laughed in agreement.

“Soon. People are still weak and you've seen how snowed in those wagons are... they ain't going nowhere until we get some more thaw.” Charles hummed in acknowledgement at that, much as he wanted to get out of the cold.

“You're probably right. And, even if we do get off here... what then? We'll still have a big price on our heads.” The uncertainty of the future loomed ahead of them; the danger of the robbery without the payoff to get them out.

“This is a big country... We’ll find somewhere to lie low.” Arthur sounded more confident of that than Charles felt. As if he could sense Charles’s uncertainty, he added, “Dutch and Hosea will have a plan.” Charles envied the confidence he had. They crossed the creek, hooves splashing glittering droplets in the morning sunlight. 

“You noticed how Pearson's had a bottle in his hand ever since we fled Blackwater? We give the camp cook five minutes to grab the essentials and go, and he doesn't even bring a crumb of food.” They shared a laugh. It wasn’t so bad a prospect now that they weren’t in danger of starving from it. 

“Good that we caught more than one. A lot of mouths to feed.” Charles says, not unkindly. 

“And that girl from the ranch now too, but... not sure she'll be eating much.” Arthur sighed. 

“She has a wild look in her eye.” Charles again thought of her resemblance to his father. He didn't hate the man, but it was certainly not a pleasant reminder.

“You would too. She lost her husband, her home, everything she had.” Again, that gentle sympathy in Arthur’s voice.

“So what do we do with her?” Charles asked.

“Once we get out of here, and we're back on our feet, we'll see. She might have family somewhere.” The _For her sake, here’s hoping_ went unsaid.

“So it was O'Driscolls you ran into there?” The O’Driscolls were something Charles had heard plenty about, but it had always seemed more a phantom menace than a true threat.

“Yeah... last thing we was expecting.” Arthur’s drawl hardened.

“What is it with the O'Driscolls?” 

“You ain't dealt with them? I suppose we ain't run into them much the last six months.”

“Yeah...I've heard a lot of talk about them...”

“Well, we've been scrapping over scores with them for years. A big gang, nasty sons of bitches. Their leader, Colm, and Dutch go way back, and not in a good way. A proper blood feud.” Arthur’s tone implied there was a story there. Charles wanted to ask—he’d heard about the feud, but never got the reasons why. He was certain Arthur, close as he was to Dutch, would know. 

“So I heard.” Taima tossed her head head suddenly, just as a familiar growling sounded up ahead. Charles grabbed the reins to Arthur’s horse, forcing them to stop as well. “Watch out! Bear up ahead. Let's see if we can find another way around.” Charles led them off a fork in the trail, winding to higher ground. The wind was at their faces. With any luck, the bear would have no reason to notice them. 

“He's got a lot of meat on him.” Arthur sounded speculative. Charles wondered if he should tell Arthur a bow would be about as effective against a grizzly as a mosquito.

“We've got enough here, no need to push our luck.” Two deer would do more than fine for their lot. From the ridge, they watched the bear shuffle through the snow, slow and sleepy. “He must be real hungry, stay well back. Spring storms like this are the worst for animals that sleep all winter.” Arthur grumbled in something that sounded like sympathy. The trail wound up the hill, trees obscuring the bear from sight. 

“We ain't ever talked that much, you and me. How long have you been with us now? Five, six months?” Arthur asked, after a few more minutes of riding in silence. Charles glanced over at him, surprised at the direction of topic change.

“Seems about right.” Charles still remembered his first day in camp. Knowing Arthur now shed that in a different light. 

“Bet you didn't expect this.” That was close enough to his line of thinking to throw Charles.

“What?” He asked.

“Any of this. The Blackwater mess, being up here.” Oh. That.

“Sooner or later a job's going to go wrong. Nature of life.” Charles replied. He’d certainly seen enough of the fickle cruelties of this life.

“Just thought you might have moved on by now.” Arthur replied. Charles glanced over at him. 

“You want me to move on?” Charles asked. This wasn’t what he’d had in mind when they rode out. He wondered if he’d offended the man somehow; or if his earlier fears of being cut loose for the injury were being realized.

“No, no, not at all.” Arthur was quick to correct him. Charles softened at his assurance. Arthur seemed almost offended by the implication. “I just... I know you could run it alone, no problem.”

“I did that for a long time. I'm done with it. Always wondering if someone's gonna kill you in your sleep.” Charles replied. The loneliness he’d felt for so long had softened since he’d fallen in with the gang. 

Arthur chuckled. “I still wonder that most nights.” That got a laugh out of Charles. For all Arthur’s bluster, he was...kind. And funny, and always trying to put others at ease. Charles glanced at him again. The mystery that was Arthur Morgan had broken a bit, allowing him to see the man underneath. 

“I reckon you’re okay.” They rode on, lost in their own thoughts for a moment. Charles pressed on. He wanted Arthur to keep talking. “This suits me. Sure, I could fall in with another gang, but Dutch... you know. Dutch is different.” Arthur chuckled at that.

“Oh yes. Dutch is certainly different.” Charles continued. He found he didn’t just want to know Arthur—he wanted Arthur to know him, too. 

“He treats me fair. Most of you do. And for a feller with a black father and an Indian mother, that ain't normally the case.” He said plainly. 

“Well. We need you now, more than ever.” Arthur answered. The response warmed Charles—kindred spirits, it seemed. Charles had never thought of himself as a provider, but the mantle fit over his shoulders nicely. It was comforting.

“Good. And how long have you been with these boys? Why ain't you run off?” Charles asked, only half kidding. If Arthur thought Charles could run it alone, Arthur certainly could as well. 

“Me?” Arthur paused. “Twenty years, something like that. Since I was a boy.” That wasn’t what Charles had expected. The nonchalance of his answer rocked Charles.

“Twenty years?” He asked.

Arthur rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah. He taught me to read. John, too. Taught me a few other things, him and Hosea.”

“I'm sure.” Charles answered drily.

Arthur continued, sounding more passionate now. “Dutch saved me, saved most of us. That's why we need to stick by him through this. He always sees us right.” The certainty in his voice was a balm to the stress of the past weeks. Charles nodded. 

“How's that new horse?” He asked, steering the subject to lighter territory.

“He's alright, he'll do for now. Appreciate you lettin’ me take Taima the other night.” Arthur answered. Charles shrugged.

“She’s a strong one. It's been as hard on the horses as on the rest of us. I don't know what Dutch would do if something happened to the Count.” He flinched as he said that — Arthur was surely still mourning Boadicea. But Arthur chuckled.

“Same with Bill and Brown Jack. He's a drunk, miserable bastard, but... he loves that horse.” Arthur sounded fond. 

“I hope they all make it.” The gang didn’t need any more losses right now. 

“I tried to ride the Count once... bucked me faster than a bull. Won't take nobody but him.” Charles laughed. He could just imagine a young Arthur being tossed from the little albino stallion. 

“I bet there’s a lot of stories, 20 years riding with Dutch and Hosea.” Charles said. He looked at Arthur openly, now. Arthur looked back, and then back at his horses neck, tucking his chin down again.

“Aw, assuredly there are. Ain’t all that interesting.” Deflecting again.

“I’d love to hear some of them sometime.” Charles replied. Arthur tugged his hat lower over his face. 

“Maybe some day, if you ever feel like bein’ bored to tears. If there ain’t no wet paint around to watch dry.” 

“I’ll hold you to that, Arthur.” Charles replied, warmly. 

They arrived in camp without fanfare. It was still early, and everyone was inside either hiding from the cold or still asleep. Charles hitched Taima, and Arthur did the same. 

“Brought some food back, boys!” Arthur shouted at the sleepy camp. Movement and noise from the cabins, but the only person visible was Pearson, still huddled by the fire in the shed.

“C’mon Charles, lets get these over to Pearson.” As they untied the deer from the saddle trees, Arthur paused, looking at Charles. “Oh, and. Thank you. For showing me how to use a bow properly.” 

“I only showed you a little. Takes a lifetime of practice to master.” Charles replied, but Arthur’s thanks washed over him anyway. Arthur stepped back, out of Charles's space. He turned back to the deer, slinging it over his shoulder.

They approached Pearson who lurched up from his chair, a bottle of...something, clutched tightly in his fist.

“Well, well, well... Just drop it down in here.” Very helpful, Charles thought. Charles hung his deer from a rack on the wall, meant for bleeding carcasses. Arthur set his on the butchers table. Uncle, who had been asleep on the ground beside the fire pit, rose at the commotion. He stank of whiskey. Charles wasn’t sure how they’d escaped with that much booze in tow.

“What a surprise... to find the camp rat loitering around the kitchen.” Arthur sniped at Uncle. Uncle, to his credit, managed to look hurt while staggering in place.

“Is that any way to greet an old friend? I feel like we haven't spoken for days!” Uncle cried at Arthur.

“I do my utmost to avoid you.” Arthur replied, turning towards the fire again, warming himself after the ride through the snow. Charles joined him, peeling his gloves off and testing his hand. It didn’t seem any worse for the wear.

Uncle turned to Charles. “He loves me, really. It's his sad way of showing affection.” Charles glanced between the two. Arthur narrowed his eyes at Uncle.

“No it isn't. Now shoot, get lost.” Uncle began to retreat.

“Well, see you gents later.” He called, as if Arthur hadn’t chased him off. Pearson puttered over to the deer, looking them over. 

“Well, I see you got on just fine!” Pearson sounded a bit more sober now. Arthur gestured at Charles beside him. 

“Charles is a wonder.” Arthur replied, grinning over at him. Charles chuckled, keeping his eyes on the fire. Pearson offered them some of what he’d been drinking. Arthur spluttered on his mouthful, then handed the bottle off to Charles. He handled it much the same—it felt like drinking acid.

“Jesus, what is that?” Arthur demanded, still coughing. Pearson laughed.

“Navy rum, sir. It’s the only thing... the only thing!” Charles handed the bottle back to him. Pearson was still laughing. “Keeps you sane, it does.”

“Yes, seems to have done a treat on you.” Arthur bit back sarcastically. He turned to Charles. “You go rest that hand Charles.”

“I’ll be fine in a few days.” Charles reminded him. Arthur gave him a nod. 

“You mind helping me with the skinning, Mr. Morgan? It's easier if we do it together.” Pearson asked. 

“Do I get to skin you?” Arthur asked.

Pearson spluttered on his Navy rum. “You're always one with the jokes aren't you? Come on.”

“This isn't really a job for a man with a burnt hand. I'll see you both later.” Charles tells them, exiting as they make themselves busy with the delicate work of skinning the deer. Despite the stress, and the pain in his hand, and the ride through the snow to hunt, Charles felt maybe it was worth it. As he settles into has bunk to rest after the hunt, Charles thinks of Arthur’s rumbling laugh and the promise of stories, of his solid warmth when showing him how to hold a bow. He thinks of gentle praise and a gravelly laugh, of _Charles is a wonder_ and blue eyes.


	4. Colter II: Moonlight Confessionals

_May 15, 1899_

Laying on his borrowed old cot that night, Arthur realized that was the first time he'd actually gone to bed since they'd reached Colter. After the desperate run out of Blackwater, it would make sense to take this brief reprieve to catch up on his rest, prepare for whatever laid ahead. But there always seemed to be _something_ that needed doing. Burying Davey — Killing the O'Driscolls at the Adler homestead, bringing Mrs. Adler back with them — returning to the Adler homestead with Lenny, to bury Mister Adler — rescuing John from the mountains — hunting with Charles — the raid on the O'Driscoll camp — it was too much. Arthur felt simultaneously overstimulated and exhausted, much too wired to sleep but dragged down by a bone deep weariness. The full moon that night made his room too bright, the silence of the night seemed too loud, somehow. Arthur'd had enough nights like this to know laying in the dark wouldn't make a difference now. On a normal night Arthur could switch between deep sleep and full awareness at the drop of a hat — the lifelong habit of living the life he had. Seemed like some kind of penance that every so often the ability would evade him. He sat up, giving up on the pretense of sleep, and crept out of his room in the cabin he was sharing with Dutch, Molly, and Hosea. Hosea’d fallen asleep by the fire, and Arthur was careful to step lightly passing him. Old man had more than earned his rest. The awful cough that showed up a few years back had gotten worse seemingly overnight after they'd entered the mountains, aging him years in a matter of days. Light snores told him Molly and Dutch were asleep as well. He stepped into the snow, lighting a cigarette as he went. The snow was thawing, enough they could leave once they robbed this train — but it was still too goddamn cold. Arthur hunched his shoulders and tugged his coat higher, taking a drag of the cigarette. He made his way towards the scout fire they had set up in front of the cabin, intending to keep warm if he couldn't get any rest. It was then he realized he weren’t the only one awake. Charles was sitting at the fire, paying him no mind, although Arthur was sure he’d heard him. He made his way over to the fire, standing a few feet away. Charles had a pile of small branches and feathers at his feet, and he was attaching them with some kind of twine. 

“Whatcha workin’ on there, Charles?” Arthur asked.

Without looking up, he replied. “I’m fletching arrows. You have a bow now, so I figure we’ll both need some.” 

“And you make those yourself?”

“Sure. Better than anything you’d buy in a store. I made the bow, too.” Arthur's mind jumped to the bow in question, still tucked into his saddle scabbard days after their hunting trip.

“Aw, hell Charles, if I’d known you made that, I woulda—“ Charles looked up at him, cutting him off.

“Don’t be. I wanted you to take it. The more hunters we have, the better. I can make another.” Charles gestured to the camp, and Arthur had to admit—there was sense to more of them being able to bring in food. Being stuck out here had taught them a lesson, if nothing else. “Besides,” Charles continued, “My mother taught me that teaching and sharing are the greatest things we can do. I feel like I’m living up to what she would want for me...in some small way.” The weight of that confession settled over Arthur like a heavy quilt. He found, coming from Charles, he didn’t mind it so much.

“Well, then, I’ll be sure to put it to good use. For your mother’s sake, if not for yours or mine.” Arthur replied, giving Charles a lopsided smile. Charles held his hand out.

“Mind if I steal a smoke?” Arthur passed him the cigarette, and the sight of Charles taking a drag off his cigarette was too intimate, somehow — Arthur tilted his head back, looking at the stars and rocking on the balls of his feet.

"Do you think your mother would have approved?" When he realized how that sounded, Arthur backtracked quickly. "I mean, havin' the bow you made. And using it. Since I ain't, well — since I'm an outlaw —" Charles's quiet laughter stopped his awkward tangent.

"I like to think she would." Charles said. And Arthur found he had nothing to say to that, so he continued staring up at the sky, offering a small nod in acknowledgement. Charles finished the cigarette and continued working on the arrows. “Sorry for taking your cigarette. Didn’t realize how much I was craving them 'til we got up here and I didn’t have any with me.”

“Nah, don’t you mention it. Consider us even for the bow, now.” Arthur drawled back, smirking. Charles continued working, and Arthur found himself drawn to the movements. His big hands were deceptively nimble, fletching the arrows with quick, sure movements. Arthur found himself staring, mesmerized by it. 

“You don’t have to stand there, Arthur.” Charles said after a time. Arthur huffed, feeling silly. 

“Sorry, I guess I’m disturbin’ your work. I’ll—“ 

“I was inviting you to sit. You look dead on your feet.”

“Oh.” Arthur dropped onto the ground where he’d been standing, warming his hands by the fire for lack of anything else to do. He glanced over. There was something restful about Charles’s massive hands doing such delicate work. It reminded him of when he was younger, and he’d sit with Hosea cleaning guns or mashing herbs. Where Hosea had usually sung, or hummed, with Charles there was just a restful silence. Arthur found he didn’t mind the quiet with Charles. If the man was aware of Arthur’s staring, he didn’t show it.

“How are you holding up?” Charles asked him.

“Ah, m’fine.” Arthur answered. 

“It’s been real busy since we left Blackwater, and you haven’t stopped once. You must be tired.” Charles paused to look up from his work. “Shouldn’t you be resting?” The conversation was a mirror image of the one they’d had just a few days prior, when Charles had taken him hunting, that Arthur held his hands up in guilty surrender. 

“Yeah, yeah, I know I should. Just—a lot goin’ on, can’t sleep, you know how it goes.” Charles _hmmed_ in response, but Arthur was pretty sure the faint tilt of his mouth, the shift in his eyes as he looked back to his arrows, meant he’d been teasing him. It pleased Arthur that he could now pick up on the subtle shifts in Charles’s facial expression. He’d been with them a while now, and Arthur’d—well, he’d made himself look like a fool. His first impression of Charles had been that he was cold and emotionless. Turns out he just hadn’t been paying attention. Charles teaching him to hunt had been the first time they’d really ridden out together, and he’d found he quite liked the man. He was kind, and giving, and good. He was a man Arthur was grateful to have on his side, while not being quite sure how a man like Charles ended up with the gang. He found he wanted to know, but wasn’t sure if he could ask. Riding out hunting together had been the only respite in a very, very long week, and the things troubling him in the quiet of his borrowed room didn’t seem so bad here, under the stars, resting between a campfire and Charles. Leaning back in his elbow, Arthur alternated between watching the sky, the fire, and sneaking quick glances at the man beside him.

"You know anything about constellations, Charles?" Arthur asked.

"I know a bit. I can figure out where I'm going on a clear night." Charles replied, pausing from his work to glance up as well. "My father told me once, that when I was small, my mother would tell me the names of the constellations. He said my favorite was Little Bear, so that's what she called me." His voice took on a wistful edge, and he looked back down at his work. "I don't remember most of the names, but I remember that one. Sometimes I have dreams, where I think I can hear her voice, naming the constellations off for me. I can never remember them when I wake."

Arthur was quiet for a moment, digesting that. "I used to have trouble sleeping, a lot more than I do now, when Dutch and Hosea first took me in. I think Hosea got sick of worrying what I'd get myself into, left alone all night. So he started staying up with me, teaching me all the constellations." He paused, lost in his own head. Then he laughed self consciously, lowering himself from his elbow to lying on his back. "At first, I couldn't even pronounce them Greek names. But he kept at it, every night, teaching me the Greek names and the nicknames, where they all were, the stories behind 'em..." Arthur glanced over at Charles, then back up at the sky. The man was still focused on what he was working on, but Arthur could tell he was listening. "Eventually, they all stuck in my thick skull. Little Bear was one of my favorites, too." Arthur continued. "I always liked Canis Major, too. Means big dog." He sighed again, tiredly. It was peaceful out here, with the stars and the snow and the fire and the quiet company. The exhaustion he’d been fighting for days rose up over his head, and pulled him under.

// 

Charles had just about finished the arrows he’d been working on. The quiver could hold forty, but things were slim right now. He'd started off with twenty arrows himself, and was able to find enough suitable wood to craft ten more. Fifteen arrows each. Not great, especially considering he didn't yet have a bow, but they were going to be leaving soon anyway. It was soothing work, the repetitive motion of smoothing and shaping the wood, fletching the shaft with feathers, affixing the arrowheads. Not easy work by any means, but he’d done the brunt of it earlier in the day. Assembling the arrows was the final step, and a satisfying one at that. Charles let his mind wander, wondering where they would go from here. Roads off of the mountain were limited, but he assumed they would try to head west again. Much of North Elizabeth was forested, with plenty of maple and fir and yew trees. He mused over the various opportunities he'd have for crafting himself a new bow. He wondered if Arthur would be interested in learning to make arrows himself, too. Wondered if Arthur would learn that was quickly as he had learned to use the bow itself. Wondered, again, if his hands would look as nimble as they had handling the bow, and found his mind wandering to other things Arthur's hands could do — He sat up and stretched, tense from hunching over his project for so long and shaking his head clear. He glanced over at Arthur, who’d fallen asleep some time before. Charles didn’t have a pocketwatch on him, but he figured it was going on 3 am by now. It’d probably been close to midnight when Arthur had come out to join him. He’d looked exhausted, and Charles felt a hum of satisfaction, seeing him finally get some rest. Charles rose to his feet and entered the cabin, moving quietly to not wake Hosea, and retrieved Arthur’s bedroll and blanket from his bed. He paused on his way back out, noticing a pack of cigarettes on the table by the window. _I'm sure Hosea wouldn't mind,_ Charles thought. Going back outside, he settled the covers over Arthur’s sleeping form. He stirred slightly, but didn’t wake. A quick stop by Pearson's shed, some firewood added to the fire to keep it going into the morning and Charles was satisfied. A soft smile, and a whispered _goodnight, Arthur_ and Charles retreated to his own bunk to get some sleep before the sunrise.

_May 16, 1899_

Warm sunrise tickled at Arthur's eyelids, dragging him into wakefulness. Arthur opened his eyes to the spill of dawn breaking over Colter, and jerked upright, confused. The previous night came rushing back at him, and he realized he wasn't nearly cold enough for having slept on the snow outside. His own bedroll and spare blankets were draped over him, and the fire had been banked and fed sometime in the past few hours, still giving off a cheery heat and light. He glanced over to the spot Charles had occupied before he fell asleep, finding it of course empty. In the spot, instead, was a quiver containing a handful of arrows. He leaned forward, and noticed an unlit cigarette tucked under the strap. Warmth bloomed under Arthur's breastbone, licking heat up his face and over his chest. It'd been a hell of a long time since anyone had... _cared for him,_ quite like that. Thankfully, no one else was up and about just yet. He rose and headed back into the cabin, aiming to replace his belongings with no one the wiser on where he'd spent his night.

//

Arthur ducked into the cabin housing the women and injured and otherwise infirm, nudged along by Hosea and nebulous guilt he would not acknowledge. Sometimes it seemed the old man could read his mind, and Arthur shuddered at the prospect. On the bench just inside, Mary-Beth and Tilly sat with Mrs. Adler. She still hadn't stopped crying, but the eerie sobs that had plagued the camp upon her arrival had quieted to a barely audible whimper, the shaking of shoulders and wiping of eyes. Arthur didn't know her, sure, but he hurt for her just the same. He knew all too well the hole she was in, and wished he could offer anything at all to ease her pain, knowing full well he couldn't. More fool him, though, because he just couldn't seem to help himself.

"Mrs. Adler?" He asked, pulling his hat off and holding it in his hands. He stayed a few paces off, giving the woman her space. She eyed him warily, not giving a direct answer but waiting for him to get to the point. "I ain't sure if anyone bothered to let you know, but Lenny — one of the other fellers and I — well, we went back, gave your husband a proper burial the other day. The grave — uh... he's up on the ridge, overlooking the property. We put a cross and some stones to mark it. It ain't nearly enough, I know —" Mrs. Adler had remained silent, letting him stumble through his words, but here she cut him off.

"You didn't have to do that. Thank you, Mister Morgan." Her voice was raw, like a lifelong smoker that'd just choked up a gallon of seawater, and she offered him a grimace that was probably the closest approximation of a smile she could offer. Arthur nodded, acknowledging her thanks.

"I also grabbed what I could from the cabin — a few things survived the fire." And out of his coat pocket he produced the framed wedding photo, slightly charred on the edges but otherwise perfectly intact, as well as a pair of silver earrings, and a matching bracelet. Mrs. Adler stared at him, seemingly at a loss for words. Arthur handed her the items gently, beginning to move away. "I figured you'd like to have these." And he turned away, heading to his original goal. He didn't want to hear her thanks, see her looking at him like she didn't understand how this devil of a man who she'd met on the worst night of her life had done her a kindness. He didn't do it for thanks, anyway — It felt like the least they could do for her. He approached John's bedside, shockingly devoid of Abigail at the moment. He took a seat on the stool, settling in. John groaned slightly, but didn't wake. The bandages looked relatively clean, and his forearm bore the telltale marks of Reverend Swanson's help. The morphine was doing its job, clearly, because he managed to keep sleeping through the pain and the fever and the noise around him. Arthur knew Dutch wanted to move on that train soon, it was due through in a few days. Considering this would be the last bit of downtime he had until then, Arthur kept vigil at his brother's bedside, writing in his journal and wondering where the hell the two of them had gone wrong. Arthur laughed to himself, thinking if John could just manage to be this quiet without the morphine, the two of them would get along a hell of a lot better.


	5. Horseshoe Overlook I: Eastward Bound

_May 20, 1899 _

The day they left Colter dawned bright and beautiful. Spring had sprung, finally, setting them free of their icy prison. Arthur shrugged out of his heavy coat once they crossed the border into New Hanover. He was driving the wagon that brought up the rear of the convoy, with Hosea beside him, the back of the wagon loaded down with supplies. Arthur felt some of the pressure of the past weeks sliding away as they rode into the Heartlands. New Hanover was beautiful in the spring. Lush and green and filled with animals going about their springtime business. As apprehensive as Arthur was to be heading east, he had to admit the area was beautiful, and it eased something in him to be free in this land.

Before they’d left, Charles had carried over a stack of crates, and climbed up into the back of the wagon after he’d placed them, ready to head off. 

“Mind if I ride with you boys?” He’d asked.

“Oh, you’re more than welcome to son! Just remember you asked for it once you see Arthur’s driving.” Hosea had turned to grin at Charles, and Arthur had groaned.

“Shut up, old man. You’re the one who taught me to drive.” As annoyed as he’d pretended to be, it warmed Arthur something fierce, that Charles had sought him out, asked to ride with him and Hosea. It was a fine thing to see the comfortable rapport he’d developed with Charles up in the snow had survived the thaw.

//

It felt good to be out of the mountains. As if Blackwater hadn’t been enough, Dutch had insisted on raiding the O’Driscoll camp, then robbing a train with their intel and dynamite. Arthur was no stranger to heists, and it had gone well enough, all things considered. But something about it all made him feel claustrophobic, too big for his skin. It itched at him, to see Hosea so desperately pleading with Dutch, and Dutch not listening in the slightest. All the time Arthur had known them, the two had been partners, usually running on the same wavelength. They’d had their disagreements in the past, sure, but he had never seen Dutch disregard Hosea so completely. More disturbing still, seeing Hosea plead with Dutch had felt like a kick in the stomach. Arthur had never had to pick a side so openly — In the past, decision making was handled between the two, and if they wanted Arthur’s input they would ask for it. He’d had his hand forced by Dutch’s refusal to listen to Hosea, and so Arthur had spoken up. And Dutch had just ignored the both of them. It stung, but it weren’t simply a matter of pride. The gang had gotten big, and they had a lot of folk to protect. Sure, they needed money. But in the past, the gang had taken on honest work here and there, plenty of times. Arthur felt rushing into a train robbery so soon was dangerous, and it worried him for the folk he had to protect. Arthur hoped getting off the mountain would open more opportunities for them, and give Dutch time to cool off. Maybe enough time for Hosea to get through to him. The wagon train approached the Dakota River, crossing just above Cumberland Falls. Arthur was jolted out of his thoughts by Hosea’s hand on his arm, his voice saying,

“Get us out of the stream. Steady now, Arthur.” Arthur flicked the reins, urging the Shires on. For a moment he was 15 again, and Hosea was teaching him to drive so that he didn’t have to be the one hauling them around all the time. As the wagon pulled from the river, an almighty  _clang_ and the wagon lurching at an unnatural angle told him they hadn’t quite cleared the river in one piece. 

“Ah, shit!” Arthur snapped as he jumped down from the drivers seat, surveying the damage. The left rear wheel had fallen off, and a few crates of supplies had fallen off the back. 

“What happened?” Javier had reined Boaz in at the chaos happening behind him. Bill, driving the wagon in front of them, had also stopped. Jack was peering over Uncle’s shoulder curiously.

“I broke the goddamn wheel.” Arthur called back over his shoulder, headed to collect the fallen items. Charles beat him there, and was lifting a milk crate out of the river. Arthur smiled at him sheepishly, feeling like a goddamn fool. Any competence he’d established in Charles’s eyes by managing to use a bow was assuredly gone now. Arthur kept his eyes down as they worked on gathering the scattered supplies. 

“Alright, let’s get this fixed.” Hosea clapped his hands together as he came around the side of the wagon. 

“You need any help?” Javier asked.

“Nah, I reckon us three can handle it.” Hosea said, waving Javier and Bill on. They continued on, leaving the three men with the wagon.

“Alright Charles, you and I will lift this up. Arthur, you get that wheel back on.” Hosea instructed, coming to stand by the back of the wagon with Charles. They both took a hold of it. Arthur hefted the wagon wheel up, rolling it into position.

“Are you sure you can still lift the wagon up, old man?” Arthur ribbed. He heard Hosea’s huff, and saw Charles’s shoulders shake with a near silent laugh. 

“Shut up.” Hosea snapped.

“I’m just saying!” Arthur replied. Hosea and Charles hoisted the wagon up, and Arthur lifted the wheel, lining it back up with the axle. 

“Well, say less!” Hosea’s quip was much less biting, as out of breath as he was from holding up the wagon. Arthur chuckled, using his body weight to bash the wagon back into place. Once he was fairly certain it was secure, he stepped back, and Hosea and Charles did the same. The wagon stayed upright, and Arthur grinned.

“Look at that, Arthur. Seem’s I’ve taught you a thing or two over the years.” Hosea laughed, turning to look at Charles. 

“I did warn you he was a hell of a driver!” Hosea chuckled as he handed Arthur the spanner to tighten the wheel bolt into place. Arthur tightened the bolt, giving it a tug to ensure it was in place, ducking his head and ignoring the warm laughter from Charles and the teasing from Hosea. He turned to hand the spanner back to Hosea, and noticed the other two men were looking up at something on the cliffs, across the falls. Arthur followed their gaze, noticing three native men up there, watching them. 

“What you think?” Hosea asked, and it took Arthur a moment to realize Hosea wasn’t asking him.

“If they wanted trouble, we wouldn’t have seen them.” Charles replied, turning and climbing back into the wagon. He took his seat on one of the crates just behind the driver’s seat.

“We really screwed them down here. Poor bastards.” Hosea sighed, also turning away. “C’mon, let’s not push our luck.”

“What’chu mean?” Arthur asked.

“Well... get in, and I’ll tell you about it.” Hosea replied. Arthur climbed up into the driver’s seat, urging the Shires on. Listening in satisfaction as the wheels churned the mud and didn’t fall off again. 

“Just keep following the road here, Arthur. I’ll show you where to go. We’ll follow the river then cut left inland.” Hosea said, digging around in a bag at his feet for something. Arthur glanced over as Hosea began working a palmful of herbs with his mortar and pestle. The smell of herbs wafting around them made Arthur feel nostalgic, in the same way campfire smoke and bedrolls too close together in a too small tent did. He rolled his shoulders, inhaling and waiting for Hosea to start his story.

“ Ah, yes, as I said, the Indians in these parts were sold a very raw deal. Where we’re headed is called the Heartlands. Pretty grazing and farming country — they lost it all. Killed or herded up to reservations out in the middle of nowhere.” Hosea told them.

“How is that any different from everywhere else?” Charles asked acerbically.

“Well... I suppose it’s not. It’s just that the Army down here was particularly, ah...unpleasant about it.” Hosea continued.

“How do you rob and kill people pleasantly? We don’t, in spite of Dutch’s talk.” Charles pressed. Any other time, that comment would have made Arthur bristle. But with the way things were going, Arthur was pleased to see Charles’s thoughts were in line with his own. 

“I fear I was trying to simplify a more complicated matter for the benefit of our blockheaded driver here.” Hosea wheedled, continuing on his herbs.

“Oh no, don’t you go blamin’ it on me!” Arthur laughed, glancing back over his shoulder at Charles. “Never forget Charles, this here’s a conman, born and bred. Just because it sounds fancy don’t mean he knows a damn thing about what he’s talkin’ about.” At that, Charles chuckled warmly, and Arthur decided he  wouldn’t  have to kick Hosea out of the wagon to shut him up. 

“So... what happened to your tribe?” Arthur asked, remembering the bit of his own past Charles had shared with him up on the mountain. He hoped to make up for any offense Hosea had inadvertently caused. Beyond that, though, Arthur was grateful for the opportunity to ask. He was curious about the man, so full of knowledge and history and forthcoming about absolutely none of it.

“I don’t know if I even have one...At least, not that I can remember.” Charles replied. “My father was a colored man. They told me he lived with our people for a while — a number of free men did, but...when we were forced to move from our lands, the three of us fled. I was too young to really remember much.” Charles sighed wearily. “All my life, I’ve been on the run. A couple years later, some soldiers captured my mother, took her somewhere. We never saw her again. We drifted around... He was a very sad man and the drink had a mean hold on him. Around thirteen... I just took off on my own.” Charles finished. Arthur wished he was better with words, to thank the man for sharing with them. He stayed quiet, and Hosea piped up.

“That was about the age we found young Arthur here, maybe a little older. A wilder delinquent you never did see. But he learned fast.” Hosea boasted, laughing and slapping Arthur’s shoulder.

“Not as fast as Marston, apparently.” Arthur groused back.

“Wait... I don’t understand.” Charles said. “What’s the problem between you two?” He asked. And the instinctive  _it’s a long story_ was on the tip of his tongue, but it occurred to Arthur the tension between him and John had been visible since Charles had joined the gang, just about seven months ago now. The man had had the courtesy not to push him on it up in the mountains; and had been open with Arthur about his own history, besides. Arthur figured the least he could do was repay that honesty.

“He ran out on us, not too long after Jack was born, for a while. A _long_ while; A year or more. Dutch and Hosea picked him up when he was a kid, same as me. Raised him, fed him, taught him to read. I suppose I ain’t fully forgiven him for all that.” Arthur admitted, not looking over at Hosea. They’d rehashed this all too many times — Dutch and Hosea both desperately trying to make the two of them get along again. Ever since John had grown into more man than child, it seemed nothing could make them coexist. Arthur wasn’t sure it was salvageable at this point.

“That makes sense.” Charles replied. “Family, from what I hear, tends to bring out the worst in each other.” Arthur  _hmmphed_ but didn’t reply. He felt like Hosea was laughing, but he damn sure wasn’t going to look up to check. 

“We still headin’ the right way?” Arthur asked, changing the subject.

“That depends.” Hosea replied.  _Here we go_ ,  Arthur thought. “Are we still heading west, in search of fortune and repose in virgin forests, as we’d planned? No.” Arthur stifled a laugh as Hosea continued. “Are we still heading in the correct direction on our desperate escape from the law eastwards down the mountains? Yes, I believe so.” 

“You know this area?” Arthur asked.

“A little, I’ve been through here a couple of times. There’s a livestock town not too far from here, called Valentine. Cowboys, outlaws, working girls...our kind of place.” Hosea explained.

“O’Driscolls?” Arthur pushed.

Hosea laughed. “Probably them too.”

“Pinkertons?” Arthur asked

“Let’s hope not.”

“And this place we’re going...what’s it called again?”

“Horseshoe Overlook.”

“It’s a good place to lie low?”

“It’ll do for now.” Hosea assured him.

“And how low do you think Dutch is really going to lie?” Arthur grumbled, returning to his earlier worries.

“It’s just...maybe it’s me who changed, not him, but... we kept telling him that ferry job didn’t feel right. You and me had a real lead in Blackwater, that could’ve worked out.” Hosea’s reply only served to make Arthur more anxious. Dutch’d had a point, putting them on the wagon together with a quip about them complaining about the old days and how Dutch had gone and lost his mind.  Arthur sighed, thinking of Lunatic Emmett and Mister Philmore and the fat stack of cash they’d recieved the previous fall. The spring elections had involved some sort of real estate scam, and Arthur would have loved to see Hosea work something like _that_.

“Maybe.” Arthur conceded.

“It just...isn’t like Dutch to lose his head like that.” Hosea continued.

“Things go wrong sometimes. People die.” Arthur comforted Hosea, with nearly the same words Charles had offered him. Maybe if they all repeated it enough, they’d start to believe it. “It’s the way it is, always has been. Me, you, Dutch... We’ve all been in this line of work a long time, and we’re still here, so... I figure we must’ve got it right a hell of a lot more than we got it wrong.” Hosea didn’t offer anything in response, and they continued down the trail for a bit. The lush landscape along the riverbank gave way as they cut inland, moving uphill. Arthur glanced over at Hosea, back to working on his herb concoction.

“What are you workin’ on there anyway?” Arthur asked.

“Just some yarrow and ginseng. Good for the health. Better than that crap you buy in the store.” Hosea grinned, and Arthur rolled his eyes, accepting the out with private gratitude. They’d have plenty of time to worry about Dutch yet.

“Y’know I still remember when you bought things instead of makin’ ‘em, like the rest of us, Hosea.” 

Hosea laughed. “The joys of old age, my boy.” He carefully tipped the mixture out of the mortar, into one of the little glass bottles wrapped in burlap they kept around for that purpose. “Here, you take this. Lord knows I’ll have enough time on my hands now to make more.” Arthur tucked the bottle in his satchel, feeling unbalanced. Hosea looking out for him wouldn’t change, apparently, no matter how old he got.

“Thanks, old man.” Arthur replied, with feeling.

//

Horseshoe Overlook sure was beautiful. Situated right on the edge of a cliff, so similar to their Blackwater camp, but the views were so different. The Dakota River far below was a broad blue ribbon winding through an ocean of rolling green hills. The trails leading into the camp were hidden by trees and foliage; easily defendable and well hidden. Arthur parked the wagon and jumped down from the driver’s seat — Dutch was waiting for them. He approached Arthur and Hosea, arms spread wide. Behind them, Charles and Javier jumped down from the wagon, bearing armloads of supplies and moving further into the camp.

“You weren’t wrong, Hosea! This place is perfect.” Dutch called, too loudly as he approached. His rings glittered in the morning sunlight. 

“I hope so.” Hosea replied, coming to stand beside Arthur. The three of them stood together at the center of camp for a moment, before Dutch whirled around, smacking the table. Uncle jumped to his feet. 

“Gentlemen! We have survived!” Dutch called across camp, drawing everyone’s eyes to him. Arthur hook his thumbs on his gunbelt, sharing a glance with Hosea. This was the Dutch they knew — theatricality and all.

“For now. Now, it is time to prosper!” Dutch continued. He took a seat in the chair Uncle had just vacated, and the rest of the camp resumed their normal rhythm. Arthur and Hosea moved closer to the table.

“Arthur and I were about to prosper in Blackwater.” Hosea countered. “We were on to something big. Then Micah got you all excited about that ferry and... here we are.”

“We have all made mistakes over the years, Hosea.” Dutch replied, his tone darkening, rising to his feet. “Every last one of us.” Arthur stepped closer to Hosea, anxiously. The fights between the two of them had been getting worse, along with Dutch’s mood swings. Arthur didn’t like it — didn’t like seeing them fight, didn’t like the feeling of  unease that ran through him at the way Dutch was talking to Hosea. He just wanted to smooth things over, but he wasn’t quite sure what it would take to reel Dutch back in, bring back the Dutch who loved them and had brought Arthur in, making them a little family. All he could do was stand at Hosea’s side, as he always had.

“But I kept us together, kept us alive — kept the nooses off our necks.” Dutch continued, brushing past the two of them. Hosea hurried to keep up, Arthur following more slowly behind them.

“I guess I’m just worried. I ain’t got that long, Dutch.” Hosea’s voice had taken on a pleading edge, and Arthur looked away. Hosea seemed resigned to the illness in his lungs killing him soon. Arthur hated hearing him talk about it like that — hearing it in conjunction with this new, strange desperation he talked to Dutch with made Arthur want to get on his horse and run out of camp. He wouldn’t, though. Of course he wouldn’t.

“I want folks safe before I go.” Hosea pleaded.

“Me too.” Dutch agreed.

“And now we are stuck, east of the Grizzlies and out of money... and a long way from our dream of virgin land in the west.”

“I know, my brother, but we are safe.” Dutch replied passionately. “We make a bit of money here, then we move again...” He continued, turning and leading Hosea and Arthur towards the cliff side of camp. There was a stump not far from the cliffs, serving as a chopping block for firewood. Charles was over there as they passed, already hard at work chopping wood. He’d shed his coat, and the thin union suit he wore clung firmly to his broad, well muscled body. Arthur watched, rapt, at the flex of his biceps and shoulders as he swung the axe. Arthur’s mouth went dry and he tore his gaze away, face flushed as he continued after his fathers. He wasn’t sure what’d come over him, but he  was  certain it wasn’t mutual. Charles was a fine man, and his friend — it wasn’t right to gawk at him, old man that he was. Arthur kept his head down as he passed, fumbling a cigarette nervously out of his stachel. As he lit up, he remembered the cigarette Charles had left for him in Colter. He took one deep drag and dropped it, mashing it out with the heel of his boot.  _Goddamnit_. He came to a stop beside Hosea, trying earnestly to pay attention to what Dutch was saying, while the continued  thwack  of the axe striking wood behind them punctuated the throb of heat running through Arthur.

“We head out west of Uncle Sam... buy us land in a few months.” Dutch continued, unaware of Arthur’s distraction.

“I hope so.” Hosea replied grimly.

“Would you look around you?” Dutch cried. “This world has it’s consolations!” At that, Arthur’s self control waned, and he glanced back over his shoulder. Charles glanced up, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, his hair falling loose around his face. He met Arthur’s eyes, and offered him a small smirk at Dutch’s little performance. Arthur grinned, turning back to the vista before him that Dutch was gesturing to.  _Oh yes_ ,  Arthur thought. _ It certainly does._

// 

Charles finished chopping firewood for their new camp, dropping the axe. It was pleasantly cool here, with wind whipping across the cliffs, but he was still dressed for the mountains sans the coat, and the hard work besides had worked him up a sweat. He wiped his brow, looking up to see Arthur staring back at him. The man was in counsel with Dutch and Hosea, more or less — to Charles, it looked more like Dutch was consulting himself. Or trying to convince them of something. Arthur grinned at him, which pleased Charles. He’d hoped, once they got off the mountain, Arthur wouldn’t go back to being a stranger to him. He’d gotten a glimpse of the true Arthur behind the Arthur that Dutch had created, and he liked what he saw. Charles quietly vowed to take Arthur hunting again soon, see if he could hear some more of his stories, coax a few of those boisterous laughs out of him. Dutch retreated from the camps edge, moving into the center of camp.

“Now, everyone, put your tools down for a moment.” He called, loudly enough everyone heard and stopped what they were doing, gathering in closer to listen. Charles leaned against the tree beside him. Arthur paused beside him, silently offering him a cigarette, which Charles accepted gratefully. He decided he’d have to head into town soon, and replenish his smokes. He took a final drag, handing it back to Arthur. He took it and returned to his spot beside Hosea, just as Dutch began to speak, Arthur taking slow drags off the cigarette. Charles forced himself to look away, to keep his eyes on Dutch.

“I know that things have been tough. But we are safe now, and we are far too poor. So it is time for everyone to get to work!” Dutch called, grandstanding for his audience. 

“Get to work, but stay out of trouble!” Hosea clarified, speaking up from Dutch’s side. As usual, where Dutch was all gravitas, Hosea was the logic. Charles noticed the folks around him nodding their agreement, and found himself doing the same. _The last thing we need is more trouble. “_ Remember, we are itinerant workers.” Hosea continued.

”—Laid off, when they shut down our factory to the North.” Dutch finished Hosea’s thought. “Now get out there, and see what you can find.” He looked around, sweeping his gaze over each member of the gang. “Uncle, Reverend Swanson.” The two men looked up from the hushed conversation they’d been having. “No more passengers. It is time for everyone to earn their keep.” Dutch commanded. Charles frowned, glancing at the two elderly men. He wondered if Dutch was going to expect Jack to get out there and start working soon, too.

“There is a town, a little way down the track, name of Valentine... it’s a livestock town. All mud and morons if I remember right.” Hosea said. Arthur had just about smoked the cigarette down to the last bit, and he dropped it, mashing it out with his boot. Charles followed the movement, suddenly distracted. Arthur hooked his thumbs on his gun belt, leaning back on his heels. Charles felt anxious to get out of camp, head into Valentine and find some smokes and a good distraction. It was getting difficult to keep his eyes to himself. Charles forced himself to focus on Hosea, still speaking. “That seems a decent place to start.”

”And we need food, real food. That means every day, one of you.” Pearson piped up. 

“And remember, whatever it is that you find...” Dutched called, tapping the small wooden chest on the barrel beside his tent. “The camp gets it’s slice!” He slammed the lid shut, waving his hand. “Now, be sensible out there.” At that clear dismissal, the gang dispersed. Charles headed for the hitching posts, giving Taima a quick brushing down, checking her hooves and offering her a carrot. She burred happily under his attention, seeming as pleased as the humans around her for the change of scenery.

”You ready to get out and stretch your legs, girl?” Charles crooned to his mare, tightening her cinch. Other than the brief hunting trip, she’d spent most of their time in Colter shut in the barn, and Charles thought she seemed as eager to go as he was. 

“Ey, compadre, you headed to check out Valentine?” Javier called. Charles paused in his efforts to mount up, glancing over his shoulder. Javier and Bill were approaching, leading Boaz and Brown Jack.

”I am.” Charles replied, eyeing them coolly. He had no quarrel with Javier, even if he was friends with Bill.

”Mind if we join you? We were thinking of checking out the saloon while we’re there.” Javier asked him, swinging up into Boaz’s saddle. Charles shrugged, doing the same and mounting Taima. 

“Sure. I could use a few days outta here.” Charles said as the three of them trotted down the trail.

”And a drink! Don’t forget a drink.” Bill laughed.

”Sure, Bill. I could use a drink.” Charles replied, nudging Taima into a steady gallop.


	6. Horseshoe Overlook II: Civilization & Other Forks In The Road

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slightly longer than normal wait — I've had a hectic week, and I couldn't quite get this chapter how I wanted it. I couldn't figure out how to wrap it up, this thing just kept getting longer and longer, so it's a bit of a huge chapter, so thanks for bearing with me! As always, thanks for reading :) 
> 
> just an fyi, trigger warning for canon compliant violence and racial slur usage in this chapter.

_ May 22, 1899  _

A couple days off the mountain had done wonders for Arthur's peace of mind, and seemingly everyone else's as well. Marston spent most of his time sitting under a tree on the edge of camp, resting in the sun. Arthur wouldn’t admit it under the pain of death, but he was relieved to see the man getting his strength back. Mrs. Adler still remained aloof, spending her days huddled by the cliffs, and Arthur found himself keeping an eye on her. Abigail, too, he noticed, was spending a fair bit of time with her, no longer preoccupied with John’s imminent demise. It seemed to be doing some good, because she was finally sleeping, and even helping Pearson a bit. She’d given him a tentative smile when he had dropped a rabbit on the butcher’s block, or at least the closest to a smile he’d seen from her yet. Hosea’s cough was lessening, Jack was playing again, and Dutch had calmed down a bit. All in all, Arthur was tentatively hopeful things could get better — not so complacent he was ready to go haring off, just yet. He’d stayed in camp these first handful of days, helping everyone settle into their new home — he had only ranged as far as the woods just outside of their camp, getting some more practice with his bow, bagging a few turkeys and a rabbit. Charles had disappeared as soon as they’d set up camp, and Arthur tried not to be too disappointed at that — there’d be plenty of time to bother the man for more hunting lessons. As it were, he could just about hear Charles’s warm voice in his ear, feel the ghost of his dexterous hands guiding his wrist back in the mountains as he got some more practice in. The sensation had him walking back to camp with a skip in his step and a cheery call of  _here’s dinner, Pearson,_ heralding his return. Besides, he couldn’t blame the man, as he weren’t the only one. Seems a lot of folk were itching to get out and stretch their legs, with more room to roam down here. Even staying in camp, watchful as he was, Arthur knew he’d need to head out soon. A hot bath, a whiskey and some supplies were in order.

“Good morning, Arthur.” Hosea called, approaching Arthur as he stepped from his tent. It was still early, and the cool breeze rushing through camp brought the smell of hot coffee to Arthur, likely coming from the tin mugs cradled in Hosea’s hands, one of which he held out to Arthur.

“Mornin’, Hosea.” Arthur replied, taking the cup. Warmth leaked from it into his palms, and steam rose promisingly from it. A tentative sip turned into a gulp, Arthur downing the coffee. Hosea chuckled at him, and Arthur rolled his eyes. He still remembered his first coffee, the way he’d spat it out all those years ago after Hosea had handed it to him.  _It’ll grow on you, _ _son,_ He’d said. And it surely had. It was comforting, the return of this little ritual of theirs after the recent chaos. Hosea took a slow sip of his coffee, eyes still crinkled in amusement at his overgrown son.

“The Reverend wanted me to let you know he’s got something cooking up — told me to have you meet him at Flatneck Station.” Hosea said.

“Swanson, huh? Alright, I’ll get to it.” Arthur grunted.

“A couple of the boys are in town — Charles, Bill, and Javier.” Arthur glanced up a little too quickly, and Hosea grinned as he continued. “Go meet up with them when you get a chance. Make sure they aren’t gettin’ into any trouble.” 

“Oh, I’m sure if Bill’s there, there’s trouble. But I’ll get down there soon.” Arthur grumbled. “What are you doin’ today?” He asked. Hosea began to walk away, laughing.

“Today, I’m going to read a book!” 

Morning coffee taken care of, Arthur headed over to the small clearing the horses had been set up in. He still hadn’t come up with a name for his new gelding, raw as the loss of Boadicea still was. This pinto was a good boy, but Arthur weren’t entirely sure if he was gonna keep him yet or not. In his line of work, he needed something a bit hardier than a Tennessee Walker. He’d do just fine for now, though — certainly better than no horse at all. That first night in this camp, when he’d been settling the horse in, brushing him down and making sure he hadn’t picked up any rocks on the way down the mountain, he’d seen Mrs. Adler sitting on the edge of camp, curled in on herself, and guilt had smacked him upside the head something fierce. Arthur had wandered over, unwilling to disturb the woman but needing to put something to rest.

“Mrs. Adler?” He’d asked, and she’d glanced up at him. He hadn’t spoken to her in a handful of days at that point, since he’d returned her belongings to her in Colter, and he was beginning to worry he was becoming a nuisance to the woman.

“I’m real sorry this didn’t occur to me sooner, but that horse I been riding... he ain’t yours, is he?” And she’d fixed him with a real strange look, like she was angry and didn’t quite want to be.

“No, Mister Morgan. He belonged to the men who killed my husband.” Her voice broke, and Arthur had cursed himself internally, knowing he should have kept his fool mouth shut. But Mrs. Adler didn’t cry, this time. She just kept looking at Arthur, and had finally said, “Keep him, sell him, skin him for meat. I don’t much care.” And Arthur had retreated, feeling shaken and of half a mind to set the horse loose and be done with it. He supposed, uncomfortable as the exchange was, at least he wasn’t riding around on the woman’s dead husband’s beloved horse, or something. That would certainly be just his luck. The horse would do just fine for now, just about — until he found one that looked like a better mount for him to keep. 

As Arthur approached the horses, muffled snores caught his attention. Uncle was slumped against the side of an unhitched wagon, snoozing the morning away. Arthur approached quietly, and delivered a swift kick to the side of his leg. Uncle startled awake, peering up at Arthur pitifully.

“Careful not to work yourself to death there, Uncle.” Arthur drawled, watching the man as he struggled to his feet.

“Y’know Arthur... I’ve been thinking.” 

“Does it pay well?”

“Eventually.” Uncle straightened up. Arthur clapped a hand on Uncle’s shoulder, walking in the general direction of the horses.

“So while the rest of us are busy... stealing, killing, lying, fighting to try to survive... You get to think all day.”

“It’s a strange world we live in, Arthur Morgan.” Uncle replied. 

“Do you wanna head into town, see if we can find anything out?” Arthur asked, trying to spare Uncle the wrath of Dutch or Susan if, God forbid,  they happened to notice him sleeping the day away.

“Sure, I got some errands to run.” 

“Great. Go get the horses hitched.” Arthur replied, gesturing to the wagon. Uncle grumbled a bit at that, but did as he was told. Arthur lit a cigarette, striking the match on his boot and taking the deep first drag of the day. He looked up to see the girls peering at him from their tent. Karen stepped forward.

“If you’re takin’ the old man into town, can you take us, too?”

“Why? What you got planned?”

“Nothing! We’ll find something for y’all to do. We always do.” Karen replied, grinning and striding forward. She knew Arthur was likely to fold and give them their way. Mary-Beth and Tilly followed behind. “We’re bored out of our minds.” Mary-Beth said as she approached. “Been cooped up here, after bein’ cooped up in the mountains. Karen’s about ready to murder Grimshaw.” 

“Well, can Miss Grimshaw spare you?” Arthur asked, gesturing to the camp, his cigarette leaving a heady plume of smoke. He certainly didn’t want the lack of chores to get blamed on  _him_ when Susan noticed. The girls all fixed him with indignant looks. Mary-Beth waved her arms. Tilly huffed. Karen’s lip curled.

“‘Can Miss Grimshaw spare you?’”  Karen repeated incredulously. “What’s happened to you, Arthur? Three young, healthy women want you to take ‘em robbing...” At that, she gestured at the younger girls, hands on their hips and sharing impish grins with each other. “...and you’re worried about house chores!” Karen drew herself up to almost Arthur’s full height, giving a little hop of excitement. “Let’s go!” Arthur tossed his cigarette on the ground, chuckling at his little sisters. 

“Fair enough, you got me. Let’s go.” He laughed, turning toward the wagon Uncle now had fully hitched. Squeals of excitement as they followed him, eager to see something outside of the camp.

“I can’t believe we’re going to see  civilization... feels like weeks since we did.” Tilly sighed as she climbed into the wagon. She sounded as if civilization were something she  missed.  Arthur, still chuckling, hopped in the drivers seat. For all his bluster, he was excited to take the girls into town. Their joy was catching.

“Yeah, Valentine. The very embodiment of civilization... you ladies are gonna love it!” Uncle mocked from the passenger seat, earning three equally nasty glares from the back.

“Okay then. Let’s go!” Arthur switched the reins, sending the horses forward. He privately hoped his patch job on the wagon wheel was sound enough for this trip, not quite willing to endure Uncle and Karen’s combined mockery.

“Alright, out through these trees here, then take a left.” Uncle directed. The morning air, the hoofbeats on packed earth, and the chatter from the back of the wagon provided a rosy outlook for Arthur’s day. As they broke through the trees, Uncle twisted around to address the girls. 

“Ladies! Sing us a song!” Uncle requested. The three were all too happy to oblige, squeals of joy punctuated with raunchy lyrics and laughter.

_...I got a girl in Berryville, can’t be screwed ‘cause she’s too damn ill... _

Arthur laughed quietly, enjoying their presence, grateful they’d come along. Certainly better than making conversation with Uncle the whole way. Plus, Dutch’d always had this idea that bringing the girls around made them look more civilized, less like filthy criminals on the run.

_The crack in her pants paid for it all!_ The girls continued to sing — maybe damaging their ability to pass for civilized folk, but. There weren’t no one around to notice yet, anyway.

“Go right here.” Uncle directed, Arthur steering the horses along the fork in the road. A wagon came into view up ahead, careening dangerously fast along the uneven dirt road. 

“Look at that coach! He’s all over the place!” Uncle pointed out, distracting the girls from their raunchy song. The coach came to a jarring stop in front of them, announced by the sound of cracking wood and thundering hooves. 

“Oh shit! Oh shit — the horses!” The man in the coach shouted, jumping down.  _Hell of a way to calm a spooked horse,_ Arthur thought. They were approaching now, and Mary-Beth laid her hand on Arthur’s arm. He could  feel  the pleading look she gave him, no need to turn. 

“Is one of you gonna get that feller’s horse?” She asked softly. Uncle scoffed, never mind that her question weren’t really directed at him at all. 

“Oh, I got lumbago, it’s very serious!” 

“Alright, I’ll see what’s going on.” Arthur grumbled, jumping down from the driver’s seat.  _Lumbago, really._ Arthur groused to himself. Apparently this is what he gets for trying to help Uncle out. It would be fitting if the coach driver pulled a gun on him on sight. He approached the front of the coach to the sight of an old man, hands on his hips, staring at the broken wagon hitch. One of the big Shire mares was standing at his side, happily munching on the grass on the roadside, harness trailing behind her, looking no worse for the wear. The other was nowhere to be found. 

“You alright there, friend?” Arthur asked, holding his hands up slightly and speaking gently to put the stranger at ease.

“Oh hey, you couldn’t help me get my other horse back from over there, could you?” The man asked, gesturing across the road. Following the motion, Arthur noticed the other Shire on the other side of the road, trotting in anxious circles. 

“Sure, no problem.” Arthur replied, circling around the wagon and headed across the road. The bright white of her coat gleamed in the midmorning sun, standing out against the green landscape like a misplaced snowdrift in spring. 

“Hey girl. Easy now, darlin’. I ain’t gonna hurt you.” Arthur crooned gentle platitudes, approaching slowly, hands up and trying to appear as non threatening as possible. She steadied enough for him to approach and grab her reins, offering her a few gentle rubs on the side of her neck to soothe her. As they made their way back across the road, quiet cheers from the wagon made Arthur grin, ducking his head and using the brim of his hat to hide it. 

“Here you go.” Arthur handed the reins over to the man, who straightened up from the bent over position he’d been in, fiddling with the hitch shaft. 

“Thank you! You’re a gentleman, sir, a gentleman!” The man praised, accepting the reins of the now calm draft horse, tugging her closer. Arthur chuckled.

“No, not really.”  _You’ve got no idea, mister._ “I was just... trying to impress the women.” And the man laughed, like that was a sentiment he could relate to all too well, and went back to fiddling with the wagon. 

“Well, thanks again, mister.” With a wave, Arthur returned to his own wagon, hopping back up in the driver’s seat and setting them off in the direction of the town just coming into view on the horizon — barns, houses, what looked like a train station. Mud and fences and sheep galore. Railroad tracks cut across the outer boundary of the town. In the far distance, the snowcapped Grizzlies rose in an impressive backdrop, while swooping forested foothills rose in a living green swell between the mountains and Valentine. It was a breathtaking view, leaving the town feeling quaint in a way that was warm and genuine rather than forced and kitschy. Arthur found himself liking the town already, forgiving it for the smell and the crowded streets. Uncle chortled at Arthur’s side. 

“You’re turning into a regular old fairy god mother there, Arthur.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Arthur asked, irritably toying with the reins.

“It means you’ve got a heart.” Mary-Beth piped up from behind them. “A small one, perhaps, hidden deep inside, but a real one.” She paused, then continued, tone turning sour and sharp as she turned to Uncle. “And you haven’t, you repulsive old lizard.” Tilly and Karen giggled at the insult, and Uncle spluttered. 

“Lizards have hearts!” The girls ignored him. 

“Well, Arthur, I’m proud of you.” Tilly said. There was a train in the station, blocking the road, and Arthur pulled the horses to a halt.

“To be honest, if you lot hadn’t been here... I probably woulda robbed him.” Arthur said, earning bright peals of laughter, and a warm chuckle from Uncle.

“ Well, you didn’t!” Mary-Beth teased. The train whistled and moved on, clacking against the tracks and rattling the walls of the station. They carried on, rolling into town. People bustled about, paying them no mind.

“Smell those sheep!” Tilly commented as they passed the auction yard.

“Or is that Uncle?” Karen joked. The girls laughed at the old man’s expense.

“Very funny.” They left the auction yard and train station behind, following the road up into town. The one building on this road was a saloon, the building itself all low slung roof and narrow windows, with a rickety porch. Beyond that, they passed a church, nestled high up on a hill on the eastern side of town, surrounded by a low slung wall penning in the rows of graves.

“This looks like a decent little town.” Mary-Beth commented. 

“Other people, finally.” Tilly lamented.

“Look at all that snow on the mountains. Sure don’t want to be back up there.” Mary-Beth continued. The girls continued chatting as they turned onto the main road. They passed a gunsmith and a sheriff’s office, with Arthur making a mental note to check on any bounties and pick up some better ammo. There was a bank, a hotel, a doctor’s office, a few houses, another, much busier saloon, a general store, and the skeleton of yet another building taking shape beside it. The street was busy, and Arthur was careful not to bump any civilians. As they passed the saloon, he noticed Taima hitched between Brown Jack and Boaz. Arthur wondered if he’d have time to stop in and check on those boys as Hosea had asked while in town. Things seemed quiet enough, so it weren’t likely they were getting into trouble. Arthur wondered what they’d found in such a small town to keep them out of camp for a handful of days, when Uncle pulled him from his thoughts. 

“You can park at the end of the road here — up here by the stables!” Arthur turned the wagon alongside the building, trying not to block the flow of traffic. He jumped down and came around the side of the wagon, eyeing the girls. Uncle jumped down as well. “Alright, here we are! Just like I said — the cultural center of civilization. Man at his finest.” The girls ignored him, and Arthur rolled his eyes.

“What are we doin’, Uncle?” Arthur asked. Man had  _claimed _ he had errands to run, after all.

“Well, we’re gonna do what any self respecting maniac does... put the women to work.” 

“With pleasure. We’ll start at the saloon.” Karen smirked, leading the trio down the road, towards the less crowded saloon off the main road they’d passed on the way in. 

“Okay, just stay out of trouble. And don’t get yourselves noticed!” Arthur instructed as they passed. Karen waved her hand in a gesture of acquiescence as they walked away.

“Right, I need to get something from the stores.” Uncle told Arthur, leading him toward the general store. Following behind Uncle, just at the end of the main road in Valentine, Arthur noticed the man for the first time. He was...small. Clearly never had a hope of being tall, his head just about Arthur's shoulder height, but it went beyond that. He was emaciated, all gauntness and sharp angles, bone jutting through skin with too little flesh. He was pale, and his blue eyes were bloodshot and hollow. The clothes he wore were shoddy and many times over patched. But despite that, the clothes were clean and in order. The man looked recently washed and shaved, and he stood behind a little table bearing a sign that read _Help The Poor._ If the sickly little stranger noticed Arthur watching him, he did a damn good job of not reacting. He was calling out in the general direction of the people bustling by on the road.

"Please, give what you can! A little bit to you is _everything—"_ and he cut off, bent almost double, using a handkerchief to hide his hacking cough. The whole scene was so pitiful, so out of place in this otherwise bright morning, Arthur felt intensely sorry for the man. It was like he was separated from the rest of the world by some invisible barrier he could not cross, and no one dared extend a hand to him—as if he were invisible. Arthur paused in front of the little table , and the sick man struggled to compose himself. Digging in his satchel, Arthur produced two quarters he'd plucked off some O'Driscoll corpses back in Ewing's Basin. Seemed fitting, somehow, to donate that to the poor. Before the man could gather himself enough to say anything, Arthur tipped his hat and strode after Uncle, waiting for him just a few paces ahead. The whole thing made him intensely uncomfortable in a way he couldn't quite explain, and he didn't want to dwell on it. Arthur made an effort to put it out of his mind.

”So that’s how you see yourself, is it? A maniac?” 

“Well, in my youth I used to be known as the ‘one-shot kid’.”

”Okay... I’m not gonna ask why.”

”You’re a sad man, Arthur Morgan. But I know you love me.” 

“Desperately. You’re my favorite parasite.” Arthur taunted. “No...ringworm’s my favorite parasite, you’re my second favorite parasite.”

Uncle paused at the entrance to the store, giving him a dirty look. “Very funny.”

“I lied. Ringworm, then rats with the plague, then you.”

”Shut up. This is the place, now. Come on.” Uncle shouldered the door open, and Arthur followed. The inside of the store was dark and cool, overflowing with things and bits and bobs and miscellaneous items of every variety a man could ever need. Every wall was lined with shelves, crowded with goods. Little signs denoting price were perched along the shelves at seemingly random intervals. Uncle immediately made a beeline for the shelf adorned with glass bottles of every type of liquor Valentine had to offer.

“So what do you need?” Arthur asked, half joking. He walked slowly, getting an eyeful of the shelves, trying to decide what was urgent enough to warrant spending his money on.

“A drop of whiskey, for a start. Something to pass the time while we’re waiting on the women.” Uncle replied. Arthur didn’t need to look over; the clink of glass bottles verified Uncle’s statement. 

“Always thinkin’ ahead, ain’t you?” He snorted, grabbing a few tins of crackers and a can of kidney beans. A packet of candies and a chocolate bar, too; something he knew Jack would like. 

“You’re lookin’ a bit tired there, Arthur. Why don’t you pick up some coffee while we’re here?”

”Lemme know if you have any questions, fellers.” The shopkeeper interjected, clearly angling to sell some extras.

”Sure, I’ll buy some coffee for you, Uncle. I’m feelin’ generous today.” Arthur picked up a few tins of coffee, adding them to his pile, mentally tabulating the cost of his haul. 

Uncle approached the shopkeeper, setting his selections on the counter. Arthur snorted again.

”You’re payin’ today, Uncle? You feelin’ okay?” 

“Oh shut up. You see how he talks to me? What happened to respecting your elders?” Uncle commiserated with the shopkeeper. The register slammed shut, and Uncle gathered his whiskey bottles. Arthur had almost finished his round of the store, nearing the back corner now. He paused, noticing a small selection of books. One in particular caught his eye, a green leather cover with gold lettering stamped on the spine. He looked over his shoulder, seeing Uncle waiting by the door.

”Okay, if you’re done, I’ll meet you outside. I won’t be long.” At that, Uncle shrugged. He was no stranger to Arthur being weird about fancy books, and was surely itching to crack open the whiskey bottle in his hand.

”Sure thing, Arthur.” And once the door slammed shut behind him, Arthur tugged the book free, running his hand over the cover.

_Leaves of Grass_

_W alt Whitman_

Arthur was familiar with Whitman, though it’d been years since he’d given him much thought. And suddenly it was like he was sixteen again, desperately trying to learn to read under Dutch and Hosea’s instruction. He’d tackled everything they’d put in his hands with voracious intensity, desperate to prove himself useful, so grateful they took the time to teach him. He’d just finished _Dracula_ , and turned beseeching eyes to his fathers.

”Are there any other books you think I should read?” Arthur had asked, trying to frame it as something for them, and not a request on his part. He’d still been skittish, terrified they’d cut him loose at the first sign of failure, at the first notion he was asking them for too much. And Hosea had gotten this speculative gleam in his eye, looking over at Dutch. Bessie and Susan had been out in the nearest town, working on something or other, and it’d just been the three of them that night. 

“I think it’s time for Whitman, don’t you think, Dutch?” Hosea had asked, earning a booming laugh from his counterpart. 

“Oh, Hosea loves telling this story.” Dutch had said. And Hosea had rummaged a bit through the crate in his tent, pulling an old, well-loved leather-bound book out, not dissimilar to the one in Arthur’s hands now. And the way he’d placed it in Arthur’s hands had assured a story went with it.

”You know how Dutch and I met, don’t you, Arthur?” He had asked.

”You tried to con Dutch, and he robbed you!” Arthur had replied, eager as anything. 

“Right you are. But you never got the rest of the story. A partnership like ours needs planning, boy, like anything does. And over dinner and drinks at the Norton Pines Saloon, we planned.” Hosea’s eyes were unfocused, lost in years of memory.

“You see, Arthur, the thing that makes our gang different, the reason we’ve _lasted_ , and will _continue to last_ , is because we have love. Love is all we have, you understand?” Dutch interjected.

”Of course, Dutch. We ain’t like no one else out there, ‘cause we do what we do out of love, not hate.” Arthur had replied so seriously, soaking up whatever lesson they had been trying to impart.

”We had eaten, and had a couple drinks. We’d shared our experiences, we’d shared our plans. It was getting late.” Dutch had continued painting a picture for younger Arthur.

”Oh yes, remember, Dutch? That bartender would have kicked us out if you didn’t buy him a bottle for every one of ours!” Hosea had laughed, and Dutch grinned, but had continued with his story, taking over for Hosea.

“And with a beer in his hand, Hosea clapped me on the shoulder, sitting at the bar that night. And you know what he said to me, Arthur?”

”What’d he say, Dutch?”

Dutch and Hosea had looked at each other, and in tandem said:

” _I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable, I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.”_

”What does that mean?” Arthur had asked. And Hosea had just laughed, and tapped the book in Arthur’s hands.

”It ain’t about _meanin_ ’, Arthur. It’s a Whitman quote. Whitman is how men like us find each other.”

And that had made perfect sense to Arthur, except.

”I thought you already knew you was both outlaws?” And they had laughed, and told him _just read the damn book, Arthur,_ and that had been that. Arthur had liked the writing, the flowery descriptiveness, but it still didn’t explain why it was important to _men like them,_ or what exactly they meant. And Arthur had read the book, and returned it to Hosea, and had never quite understood.

And then he had been nineteen, picking up work on a ranch in northern Idaho, and the handsome stablehand had casually said to him, when Arthur asked for help mucking the stalls:

_”O captain, my captain!”_

And Arthur had replied, all youthful naïveté:

”Ain’t that a Whitman poem?” And the beautiful boy had grinned, and glanced around them. They had been alone in the stable that day, and he had proceeded to step close in Arthur’s space, pressing a kiss to his lips. And suddenly the last piece of the puzzle had slotted into place. Arthur felt he knew the secrets of the universe in that moment.

They had moved on a few weeks later, and the next time they were in the area was when Arthur was twenty-two, and he’d gone looking for that handsome boy. Apparently he’d moved out east not long after Arthur had met him and never returned. It was only a few days later he met Mary Linton — then Mary Gillis — for the first time, and like most things about his younger self, kissing boys and reading Whitman had fallen by the wayside, left to collect dust — locked away at Mary’s behest.

And now Arthur stood in Valentine, and this beautiful leather book with its gold stamped lettering stood out to him, and his thoughts strayed to the saloon next door. He thought of how he’d missed Charles in the few days he’d been gone from camp, how Charles’s voice sounded when he told Arthur stories about his mother, how warm Charles’s hands had felt in spite of the cold, teaching him how to hunt up in the snow. It felt like some kind of a sign, if Arthur were the type to believe in such things. He added the book to his stack of belongings before he could think himself in circles about it, and approached the counter to pay.

//

Whiskey and late morning sunshine on a porch in a small town was a powerful combination, Arthur found. Adding Uncle’s stories to the mix was a whole lot more potent. Next thing he knew, he was being shaken awake by Mary-Beth. The sun wasn’t quite in the same spot in the sky it had been last he checked.

”Gentlemen.” She chirped proudly. “I think I’ve got something good!” Arthur sat up, more alert now. Beside him, Uncle did the same. “I snuck into this fancy house and acted like a servant girl — usually works. Someone was saying her sister is taking a trip from New York or someplace. Train full of rich tourists, headed to Saint Denis, then cruising off to Brazil!” Mary-Beth finished excitedly.

”Okay.” Arthur nodded, not fully following. Mary-Beth continued.

”A train laden with baggage and passing through a bit of deserted country at night...” She illustrated the point with her hands animatedly. Arthur chuckled, catching her drift. “...as to get to the docks in time for the tides! Passing through some place called Scarlett Meadows.” 

“Yeah, I know it. Yeah, yeah, it's right out near the New Hanover border. Right, it's real quiet out there." Uncle said, quickly falling in line with Mary-Beth's line of thinking.

"Sounds good." Arthur affirmed, looking up and down the street. "Where's Tilly and Karen?"

Mary-Beth sighed, sounding put out. "I think at the hotel. They were picking up some drunken fellers that they was gonna rob."

"Why?" Arthur demanded, a lifetime of horrible scenarios parading through his mind.

"It seemed easy." Mary-Beth's voice was petulant as a scolded child. Arthur sighed. "They have been gone for quite a while..." Arthur rose off of the bench — the rest had been nice while it lasted.

"I guess I'll go see if there's any trouble."

//

There had been trouble, of course there had. Nothing could ever be simple. Fortunately they both had been close by and easy to find, but seeing angry men crouched over two of his sisters aggressively had done little for Arthur's peace of mind. He couldn't quite shoot a man for simply daring to speak to Tilly, much as he wanted to, so in a way it was a relief to punch they man who'd hit Karen. The stress he'd been carrying for weeks went into that punch, knocking the man out cold in one blow. _Coward,_ Arthur had thought. Only hitting someone he didn't think could hit him back, and taking joy in it at that. Arthur rested a hand on Karen's shoulder as they crossed the street, not quite willing to let her out of his sight. 

"You okay?" Tilly asked as they approached.

"Sure, he only punched me." Karen scoffed. "Arthur punched him a lot harder."

"Yeah." Arthur affirmed, sighing. "Alright then." The _civilization_ was starting to feel too crowded — it was time to head home.

"Hey, who's that guy over there looking at us?" Mary-Beth asked, observant as always. Arthur followed her gaze, noticing a man in a checkered jacket and dark pants, perched on the back of a little Morgan mare. He was indeed staring at them, and when Arthur turned he pointed at them, leaving no question of the matter.

"Weren't you in Blackwater a few weeks back?" The man asked accusingly.

"Me?" Arthur asked. "No sir. Ain't from there." Like any good lie, the key was to sound confident. He turned back to the girls, praying the man would just drop it.

"Oh, you were. I definitely saw you — with a bunch of fellers!"

"Me? No. Impossible." Arthur turned back to the man, taking a few slow steps toward him. "Listen, buddy, come here for a minute."

"I saw you."

"Come here." Arthur commanded, losing patience.

"Go on, _git."_ The man wheeled his horse around, galloping down the road. Arthur turned back to the girls and Uncle, furious with himself for taking the wagon instead of riding, for bringing the girls, for agreeing to go into town with _Uncle_ in the first place. More fool him.

"I don't like this." Uncle said, eyes still pinned on the retreating stranger.

"Me neither." Arthur gestured towards the wagon, taking a step towards the horse hitched in front of the general store. "Go get the girls home. I'm gonna go have a word with our friend." Arthur swung up into the saddle, shifting to get a feel for the strange horse and saddle beneath him. 

"Be careful, Arthur." Tilly instructed anxiously.

"Just a word." He assured her, sending the horse lunging forward with a kick and a _hyah._ A call of _hey, that's my horse!_ came from somewhere behind them.

"Just borrowing it!" Arthur called over his shoulder. He'd deal with it later. The man from Blackwater had clearly caught onto his pursuit, and shouted back at Arthur.

"You stay away from me!" Arthur chased the man through the auction yard, into the hills surrounding Valentine. Pretty country, if he had the time to enjoy it properly. "I didn't mean nothing by it, honest!" The man pleaded. Arthur's borrowed horse was stronger than the flighty little mare this man had, and it was only a matter of time before they caught up. He pushed the horse harder, gaining a few more inches. The man looked over his shoulder at Arthur gaining on him, too distracted to notice the cliff they were coming up on. His horse reared, tossing her head and sending her rider over the edge of the cliff. Arthur brought his own horse to a halt, dismounting a safe distance from the cliff. He approached slowly, expecting to see a corpse dashed on the rocks far below. Instead, he found the man clinging to the ledge, struggling.

"Help! Someone!" The fool called. Arthur approached, looking down at the man.

"Why are you telling lies about me?" He asked, staying just out of the mans reach.

"No, no! I got it wrong, partner, I got it very wrong. Now please, help me up!"

"I ain't never been in Blackwater..." Arthur reiterated.

"Then why are you chasing me?" The man asked, struggling harder. Arthur had to give him credit, still debating with his life quite literally in Arthur's hands. Spreading his hands wide, Arthur replied.

"I've got an unfortunate face."

"Yes, yes... me too... now please, pull me up, please!" The man begged. And Arthur broke, because the man was so damn pitiful, and the thought of sending him to his death far below this cliff didn't sit right. 

"Alright, come on." Arthur sighed, taking a step forward and grabbing the man, heaving him up to safety. The man gasped like a landed fish, recovering from his ordeal. For a man like him, almost falling off a cliff was probably the most danger he'd ever seen. Arthur dusted his hands off, taking a step back. "You okay, partner?"

"No." The man groaned, struggling to his feet. "No, I am not." He heaved a sigh, looking up at Arthur from his spot, bent double over the ground. "I'm a mess."

"Well. You ain't dead."

"There is that." He agreed, finally straightening all the way up, holding a hand out to Arthur. "Jimmy Brooks."

Arthur ignored the proffered hand. "I think it's best for both of us if we pretend this never happened." Jimmy Brooks slowly retracted his hand, nodding vigorously. 

"Oh I agree. You saved my life." Jimmy Brooks agreed, pointing at Arthur. "You're a good man, and I, err..." He trailed off nervously, fumbling in his pocket. "Here, you want a pen? It's one of them steel ones."

"Oh." Arthur took the pen, eyeing it. It looked nice — He wondered what it would sell for. "That's very kind of you." Tucking the pen into his satchel, Arthur continued. "But I'm not a good man, Jimmy Brooks... not usually." A few steps closer, getting in Jimmy Brooks' space. "You see, I was in Blackwater. I kill people — and maybe I shoulda killed you. Should I have killed you, Jimmy Brooks?"

"Me? I n-never saw you, not-not now not-not never." Jimmy Brooks stammered, nodding the entire time. "I think we have an understanding?" Arthur nodded.

"Of course we do." A firm clap on Jimmy Brooks' shoulder. "Jimmy Brooks. I will remember that." A pause, to tap his temple with his index finger. "I've got a good memory." And Jimmy Brooks began to back away, towards his horse.

"I-I haven't! Not one lick! Not one sense in this here old mind!" He mounted his horse, looking panicked, murmuring _come on, come on_ to urge his horse on. "You have a nice day now, sir." Arthur sighed, watching Jimmy Brooks ride away. What a mess. He mounted his borrowed horse, setting off to return it to it's owner. A firm kick to the flank sent them off at a lope towards Valentine.

//

The horse's owner had seemed shocked that he really was just borrowing it, though Arthur supposed he would be too in that scenario. Now, Arthur found himself stuck in town without a horse or wagon to get back to camp. He decided to head to the saloon, hoping Javier, Bill, and Charles hadn't left yet, and would be willing to give him a ride home. The thought of Charles's laughter when he explained how he ended up here bolstered him as he strode down the road. Rounding the corner, he saw their horses were indeed still hitched outside — small miracles. As Arthur approached the porch, Javier's voice carried out to him. 

_"We've got a wild one here!"_ Entering the saloon, Arthur paused to let his eyes adjust. It wasn't too dark, thanks to the ample light coming through the big front windows. There was a massive staircase located in the dead center, at the back of the saloon. The bar was on the left, the piano was on the right, with tables and chairs scattered about haphazardly. Despite being the middle of the day, there was a decent sized crowd here, but it didn't take too long to spot his friends — Javier and Charles were leaning on the closest end of the bar, with two working girls tucked in close between them, doing shots. Arthur frowned, suddenly debating if walking back to camp would be _so_ bad. He steeled himself, unable to quite look away from how _close_ Charles was to the girl, and approached. Javier, of course, noticed him coming.

"Oh, Arthur! Arthur, come here, come here. Come over here, I want you to meet our friends." Javier was in his element, animated and on show for the women, which was nothing new to Arthur — Javier had trotted him out as a curiosity in plenty of saloons all over the country, and had always been disappointed by Arthur's complete disinterest in anyone Javier brought him, although never deterred by it. The little song and dance hadn't popped up since Charles had joined the gang, and Arthur now supposed that was by sheer luck. He decidedly did not look at Charles's hand on the girl's hip as she and her friend turned to greet him.

"Pleased to meet you." Arthur drawled.

The women both eyed him up and down — nothing new for the amount of saloons he'd frequented. The dark haired girl clinging to Charles was quiet, so the redhead at Javier's side spoke up first.

"Ain't you just a tough as teak mountain man?" She purred. Bolstered by her friend's confidence, the other girl chimed in too.

"Oh, you be quiet Anastasia. Anyone can tell this one is a pussycat."

Their drawls were something to rival Arthur's own, and had he been feeling more charitable, Arthur would have liked them. But he was tired of being prodded by the other gang members to take up with a woman in every Bumfuck, Nowhere, USA saloon they visited, and he'd had a long day, and he was trying very hard to not acknowledge the _jealousy_ burning a hole in his breastbone. Everything at once made Arthur want to be cruel, but he kept his mouth shut, knowing it weren't their fault for his woes. And then Javier spoke up.

"Exactly, yes, he's a pussy...cat. Ain't that so, Arthur?"

"Whatever you say." Meanly, Arthur eyed the women, in the same way they had him. "How much you cost, anyway?" 

"Well, ain't that a nice way to talk to a lady." Anastasia responded, eyes narrowing. Charles pushed off the bar, obviously sensing the tension, but not entirely dropping his grip on the other girl, either.

"Oh, I didn't know I was talking to a _lady."_ Arthur snapped.

"Excuse me." Anastasia said, showy drawl dropped, and she shouldered past Arthur, walking to the back of the saloon. The other girl followed, and Charles sighed, leaning his upper body away from the bar, holding onto her for as long as he could until distance forced him to drop her hand. Arthur followed the movement, leaning to one side. He was aware he was giving the girl a nasty glare, but he was still too irritated to care. Charles turned back to them, and now Javier sighed.

"Well, I must say... you've got a fine way with the women, _amigo."_

"Yeah, a regular dandy and charmer. One day you'll learn, Javier." Arthur growled, approaching the bar. He grabbed two of the shots the girls had left behind, downing them in quick succession. Javier and Charles joined him, easily forgiving. "Where's Bill?" Arthur asked, changing the subject. 

"Oh man. I dread to think about it." Javier laughed, leaning over the bar. On Arthur's other side, Charles did a shot as well. "Hey hey hey — there he is!" As if Arthur's words had summoned him, Bill was just now coming through the saloon doors. He bumped into a man by the entrance, and rounded on him angrily, shouting a terse _watch it!_ at the man.

"He about to kiss that guy or punch him?" Arthur asked, only half kidding. He kept an eye on Charles, who didn't seem bothered in the slightest, which Arthur filed away for later. Bill threw a punch that landed square on the man's jaw, sending him careening backwards.

"Oh, and we have our answer!" Javier cried, leaping into the fray by crashing a bottle over the nearest man's skull. Charles was close behind him, hurling a chair across the room. Arthur laughed following them. From there, a good old fashioned brawl unfolded — Arthur found it to be exactly what he needed. The constant movement, blood and sweat and fists, knuckles pounding into flesh worked him into a kind of fierce, red hot joy, like a dog with a rabbit in his jaws. Men came at him, angry that his friend had hit their friend, and Arthur downed them in just a blow or two. It was fast and frenzied and violent, and it allowed him to unleash the pent up energy he'd only scratched the surface of by hitting the john in the hotel, by chasing Jimmy Brooks out of town.

"Let's just shoot these bastards!" Bill complained.

"Oh, come on — we can handle these fools." Charles called back, sounding as exhilarated as Arthur felt.

"Stop dancing around and fight." Javier whined from somewhere behind him. Seemed the only person not enjoying the brawl was Bill. Speaking of, the man Arthur had been fighting dropped like a sack of bricks, and Arthur looked up to see a handful of men had ganged up on Bill and pinned him to the wall. Arthur made his way over to help, throwing punches and dodging blows as he went. Just as they got it under control and Bill knocked the final man down, a voice boomed from above them.

 _"What the hell is going on down here?"_ And an absolutely massive man made his way down the stairs. He was easily bigger than Arthur or Charles — not that that would stop them, but still.

"No Tommy, stay out of this!" The bartender pleaded from his spot, tucked safely behind the bar.

"Come here, you little greaser." Tommy spat hatefully at Javier, who charged the massive man furiously. Arthur took a step forward — Javier could fight, sure, but he was small, and Arthur didn't care to watch him fight this beast of a man himself. Plus, the slur infuriated Arthur too, and he didn't believe in giving racists a fair fight. Before he could step in, though, someone clocked him over the head with a chair. Arthur turned, barely phased, and dealt with the attacker easily. It was enough of a delay, however, that Tommy had been able to slam Javier into the bar, then drag him up to the table nearby and bash his head into it. Bill, still grappling with his own opponent, saw Arthur's man go down and called over,

"Javier could use some help, Morgan." Arthur noticed then the way Tommy was bashing Javier's head into the table, and he saw red.

"Hey, tough guy!" Arthur snarled, walking up to the fighting men and delivering a staggering swing to the side of Tommy's head. He seemed barely phased, however, simply tossing Javier aside and turning to Arthur. They scrapped for a moment, until Tommy lifted Arthur and tossed him over the table as if he weighed nothing. Arthur had been in enough bar brawls to know to roll, and he landed on his knees, dazed but spitting mad. Tommy was over him quickly.

"You want some too, huh?" And Tommy lifted him yet again, throwing him clear through the front windows, sending Arthur careening over the porch and landing on his hands and knees in the mud outside. "Come on, pretty boy..." Tommy taunted as he followed.

"Pretty boy? You're kidding me?" Arthur scrambled to his feet, squaring up as Tommy approached. "Pretty boy?" A crowd had gathered, jeering and taunting, cheering Tommy on. The fight got even dirtier and angrier from there — Tommy grabbed Arthur by the neck and tried to toss him again, but Arthur was much more agile, and had cottoned on to his technique by now, and stayed on his feet, rolling with the movement to spare his throat. A light rain had picked up, and the fight fell to bone splitting punches traded back and forth, Arthur using his greater speed and agility to dodge Tommy's lumbering punches, staying ahead by catching the man unaware. Once the folk gathered around noticed he wasn't going down so easily, the cheers split more evenly between himself and Tommy.

"Come on then, big boy." Arthur taunted, ducking and swinging an uppercut into Tommy's jaw. Tommy got the better of him and knocked him to the ground, grabbing Arthur in a headlock as he rose. Arthur responded with a few fierce elbows to the ribs, trying to dislodge his assailant.

"You okay there, Arthur?" Javier called from somewhere in the crowd — Arthur couldn't quite see with mud and Tommy's arms in his face.

"Yeah, I got this son of a bitch." Arthur called, increasing the speed of his elbow jabs. Tommy bellowed and finally let go. More vicious swings, to the gut and jaw, and it wasn't just a bar fight anymore. Arthur weren't sure why a simple bar brawl had angered the man so, but now _Arthur_ was furious, and it weren't gonna end well for Tommy. Their grappling had gotten them both absolutely drenched in mud, and Tommy got a good grip on Arthur's throat again, tossing him down into the muck. Instead of going for the easy kill, Tommy pressed his palms flat to the side of Arthur's head, attempting to force his face under the mud.

"Come on, Arthur, he's a moron!" Javier encouraged. Arthur swept his leg under Tommy, forcing him to lose his grip. Blind with rage, mud, and rain, Arthur lunged back at Tommy before he could right himself, straddling him in the mud, raining vicious blows. Tommy's face became a mass of red beneath its coating of mud, and the scent of iron permeated the air. Arthur's fists were slick with blood, but still he kept hitting, still able to hear the sound of Javier's skull hitting the table in the saloon. The jeers, the rain, even his own breathing faded to the background as Arthur let loose.

"Hey! Stop that! Stop, stop please!" A desperate voice and a weak hand grasping at Arthur's raised fist pulled him out of the fog. Arthur glared up to see the sick man from earlier, who'd been collecting donations. He was still a pitiful sight, but Arthur was too far gone to remember pity. "Please, I beg you." The man continued. "Come, sir, you won the fight already, surely that's enough?" And now the fury pulsing through Arthur wasn't the joyous kind that accompanied a fight — it was a sick, blood on his knuckles, coated in mud, forced to acknowledge his surroundings by a pitiful little man kind of fury, and it made Arthur sick. He tossed Tommy, limp now, back into the mud and straightened up, looming over the man. Somewhere, deep under it all, there was guilt, sure — guilt and shame. This was a sick man, who spent his day begging donations for charity, trying to convince a violent degenerate not to beat another violent degenerate to death. But Arthur had accepted the good in him had died long ago, and he clung to that knowledge now.

"What business is it of yours?" He growled. The man covered his mouth, coughing weakly from the effort of pleading.

"No business, sir. But please. I beg you." Fed up, Arthur shoved him aside, staggering towards the general store, aiming to hide from the rain under the same porch he and Uncle had napped under just a few hours ago. With no more action to be had, the crowd dispersed. Before Arthur could even consider licking his wounds in peace, an irritatingly familiar and distinct voice interrupted him.

"Making new friends again I see, Arthur." Arthur looked up to see Dutch approaching with a familiar, well-dressed man in tow.

"Look who we found sniffing about." Dutch called as he approached.

"Josiah Trelawney." Arthur greeted. Trelawney bowed to him, in typical Trelawney fashion.

"The very same." Dutch agreed.

"I thought you'd gone to New York." Arthur said.

"And miss all this glamour?" Trelawney asked, gesturing to the sleepy, mud filled town around them. "You must be joking."

"How are you?" Arthur asked, coming to stand on the edge of the porch, uncomfortably aware of the mud coating he wore.

"Well. Quite well indeed. I went to Blackwater looking for you gentlemen. You're not very popular there, it seems." Trelawney said as Arthur sat down heavily on the edge of the porch, beginning to feel the soreness of the fight. Dutch rested on foot on the porch beside Arthur, relaxed as anything, unconcerned with the state Arthur was in. The other three chose that moment to approach them, apparently recovered enough from their own fights. Bill and Javier were both holding their jaws tenderly, Charles, somehow, looked entirely untouched, despite his own involvement in the brawl. Trelawney looked to them excitedly.

"Ah, Javier and Charles. I've missed you. And Bill, looking as well as can be." Arthur snorted to himself, noticing Trelawney had carefully said he did _not_ miss Bill. "Gentlemen. Always a pleasure." Finishing his greeting, Trelawney bowed again.

"You're right, we ain't too popular in Blackwater." Dutch spoke up.

"We left a lot of money there." Arthur interjected.

"And young Sean it seems." Trelawney replied, causing Dutch to perk up.

"Sean? You've found him?" Dutch asked.

"Yes, I have." Trelawney replied. "He's being held by some bounty hunters trying to see how much money the government will pay them. I know he's in Blackwater, but there's talk of them moving."

"Well if we step foot in Blackwater—" Arthur replied, pausing when his jaw twinged painfully. He adjusted it, and spat out a gobbet of blood, mud, and saliva. "—well, then we're dead men for sure." He rose back to his feet, uncomfortable being the only one sitting.

"There'll be Pinkertons all over the place, but if he's alive we gotta try." Dutch said. Arthur nodded his agreement.

"Yeah, of course."

"It's you they want, Dutch." Trelawney said, unusually soberly.

Dutch sighed. "Always is." He turned to the three of his men standing off to the side, listening. "Charles, go find out what you can, carefully." Charles made his way away without a word. "Josiah, take Javier." The two of them moved off as well, and Dutch turned to Arthur. "Arthur, go get yourself cleaned up. Join them when you're ready — give them a few days head start, let them get the lay of the land, so to speak." And Dutch turned away, followed by Bill.

"Well what about me?" Bill asked.

"Well exactly, what about you?" Dutch snapped. "You are going to ride back to camp with me, Bill, and get Arthur's horse, and bring it back here for him. Uncle said he got left behind this morning." 

"Why the hell I gotta do that?" Bill spluttered. Arthur chuckled, crossing the street towards the hotel, a hot bath and clean clothes calling his name. He paused on the porch, looking back at Dutch.

"I'll go meet up with Charles and them in a couple'a days." He said. Then he looked at Bill and added, "Just leave my horse hitched up here when you get back!" Bill's complaining followed Arthur as he entered the hotel, but he didn't hear it. He was a million miles away.


	7. Horseshoe Overlook III: The First Shall Be The Last

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. there's a paragraph in here with a reference to a very much Not Canon Previous Relationship of Arthur's — I owe @ArthurChaps on twitter for that idea. It's just a little tidbit of worldbuilding, DONT WORRY, it will have zero impact on the story. I mostly just find it incredibly funny.  
> 2\. It's taking me longer to update, I apologize, but it's because I can't seem to help myself from writing longer and longer chapters. Thanks for bearing with me!

_ May 24, 1899 _

Despite the patrols, getting back out to the Great Plains had presented Charles no problems. The Pinkerton agents did very little to blend in, or to look like anything other than what they were. For Charles, traveling on his own, it'd simply been a matter of keeping his head down and keeping a good distance between them and himself. It wasn't him they were looking for, anyway, but he wasn't keen on taking any chances. All it took was one person with sharp eyes and a good memory to ruin his day. Riding along the road leading into Blackwater from the Upper Montana, it had struck Charles how little time had passed. The ferry had docked in Blackwater at noon on the eighth of May, just over two weeks ago now. It felt like the land should be drastically different, a reflection of the change it had had on his life, and the lives of those around him. But for the dusty hills and the dry grass and the little critters that lived there, just as well as the people scurrying about the burgeoning little city, life went on just the same. He hadn't dared to actually enter the city — he trusted Trelawney enough to leave that duty to him. But Charles had ridden along the outskirts of the city, taking note of the newly erected checkpoints on all the roads leading in. A brief ride along the shore of Flat Iron Lake had yielded a view of yet another Pinkerton checkpoint at the docks, confirming to Charles that yes, it was indeed as bad as they'd feared. After that, he'd retreated back up to the cliffs the gang had originally been camped on, and set up a small camp of his own. He'd spent the following day at his vantage point, simply keeping track of the amount of Pinkertons and other various lawmen coming and going from the town — when, how many there were, what direction they were headed, how fast were they going, etcetera, etcetera. Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately depending on your view of things, watching the roads didn't take up anywhere near all of Charles's attention. The encounter in the Valentine saloon had left him feeling edgy — he didn't like situations he couldn't understand. Just when he'd thought he'd been starting to understand Arthur Morgan, the man completely threw him for a loop. He'd seen Arthur happy, he'd seen him tired and concerned and hungry and even angry, all in bits and pieces over the past seven months, tucked away in his subconscious. And he probably never would have had to go over that list in his head if Arthur hadn't come into the saloon and displayed an emotion Charles couldn't say he'd ever seen on him before. Charles had spent so much of his life alone that he wouldn't say he was any good at reading other people, but a small part of him would swear up and down the emotion was _jealousy,_ and any and all reasons for Arthur to be jealous had Charles chasing his own thoughts in circles until he was dizzy. Sometime in the midst of his watching and brooding, Javier and Trelawney arrived, with Trelawney immediately riding off into town, leaving Javier and Charles to continue their vigil over the city that was entirely unaware of their presence. Another day gone by, now, and the two men had dropped the pretense of watching the roads. Charles had gathered all the intel he could gather, and Javier had seen enough to take Charles at his word on it. Now, it was simply a matter of waiting for Trelawney and Arthur to show up, or for Sean's captors to ride down the road with him in plain sight, or for the earth beneath them to split open and swallow them whole... or something else Charles had yet to think of. Now, Charles was a hunter — being patient came naturally to him. But sitting idle did not, and even less so when he had something on his mind. Eventually he hacked a branch out of the tree they were sitting under, a nicely arched, sturdy branch that would do well for his new bow. Trying to keep busy, Charles began the delicate process of whittling the branch down to a smooth enough shape to function as he needed it to. Javier followed his lead, digging around until he found a knife and a stone in his saddlebags to keep his hands busy with. Javier made for good company, and he'd been quickly welcoming to Charles this past fall. That familiarity had Charles asking, before he could change his mind:

“What was with Arthur, back in Valentine?” And at that, Javier stopped sharpening his knife, seeming caught off guard by the question.

“Huh?” Charles didn't elaborate, already wishing there were a way for him to take the words back, but Javier seemed to catch up in his silence. “Oh, with the girls? That’s...well, to be honest, I don’t much know.” 

“Sounds like there’s a story to it.”

“Well, I been with these boys almost nine years, now. I joined up back in late ‘90. How that came to be is a long story, for another time.” Javier chuckled, and Charles waited patiently — once Javier started talking, he’d run ten different conversations to ground before he got to the point. “Anyway, I’d say, probably fall of ‘91, we were in some town. Can’t remember where we were, to tell you the truth. The gang was much smaller then, and we moved a lot more. Some small town, somewhere up north, and I headed into the saloon. It was me and John, actually, this was back before Jack was born, when John was still fun—“ At Charles’s look, Javier backtracked. “Now I ain’t sayin’ it’s Jack’s fault, or Abigail’s fault, that John’s not fun anymore! It’s just the truth.” Charles shrugged. 

“Alright.”

“So John and I are in the saloon, right, we’re doing shots, having a nice time. And the most  _beautiful_ women walk up to us, Charles. I’ll never forget them. Three of them — Iris, Lily, and Violet.”

“You don’t remember where you were, but you remember their names?” Charles deadpanned. Javier grinned.

_ “Exactly, amigo.”  _

“Alright.” 

“Anyway. We’re talking to these girls, and they were  _so_ into us. I mean, we might not have even had to pay, that kind of into us, you know?” 

“Uh-huh.”

“And we’re talking and things are going great, and then the saloon doors open, and I know we were up north because it was so damn  cold.  Anyway, the cold made us look up, and who do we see coming in but our dear Arthur! He had that  _I haven’t slept or eaten in a week __look,_ you know the one?” Charles nodded, very much able to picture that look, and Javier continued. “I figured I would do something nice, so I called him over.” Javier paused again, chuckling at the memory. “He looked at me like I’d told him he was on latrine digging duty. He comes over, all slow and sour. I’d never seen him look at anyone like that, Charles. And I introduce him to the girls, and ask him to sit with us. I even bought him a drink! And he just sits there, not saying a word. Now I saw Lily eyeing him up and down, so I said to him ‘ _Arthur, why don’t you spend some time with lovely Lily over here? You look like you need to relax!_ ’” Charles snorted, already sure Arthur wouldn’t have taken kindly to that. Javier was waving his hands animatedly, getting to the crux of his story. “And Arthur gives me another nasty look, and he downs his shot, and you know what he did?” 

“What’d he do?”

“He pulled a whole wad of bills out of his pocket, hands them to Lily, and says, ‘ _Here. I’ll_ pay _you to leave me_ _alone!’_ And he stormed out of there!” Javier’s impression of Arthur’s drawl made the corner’s of Charles’s mouth twitch, fighting back laughter. “Needless to say, they weren’t feeling very friendly after  that.  Arthur gave them enough money to take a week off! So John and I ended up going to the next town over and trying our luck there. There wasn’t a single working girl in that town!” 

“So, Arthur ain’t interested in working girls?” Charles concluded. Javier waved his hand at Charles, in an  _I’m getting there_ kind of gesture.

“Well, John and I were sitting in the second saloon, the one with no women, drinking our sorrows away, and he started laughing at me. He said, _‘_ _I could have told you that was a bad idea. Arthur don’t do all that.'_ And I said _‘_ _What do you mean? He too good for working girls or something?’_ and John just shook his head at me, still laughing. It’s amazing, really, for a man who spent half his life with Dutch and Hosea, John really can’t lie for shit.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Anyway, it was real obvious there’s  _something_ to it, but John’s nothing if he’s not loyal. He wouldn’t tell me what Arthur’s deal was, shit liar that he is about hiding it. I tried to ask if it were men I should be introducing him to, because I don’t care, you know? I really was just trying to help him out, and if it’s men I gotta introduce him to, that’s fine too! But he just laughed at me, told me to leave it alone.” 

“And naturally, you didn’t.” Javier’s grin got real wide at that, Charles catching on to his game.

“Of course not! And I tell you what, like I said, I’ve been with these boys close to a decade, right?”

“Yeah, you said that.”

“In all those years, Arthur, as far as I know, hasn’t warmed  anyone’s bed, working girl or otherwise.” At that revelation, Javier held his hands wide, expecting... something, Charles wasn’t sure. He shrugged. Javier picked up his knife again, beginning to work some oleander over the blade. Seemingly dissatisfied with Charles’s lack of reaction, Javier kept talking. “I mean, he’s out of camp a lot, so I guess I can’t say that for certain, but John seemed pretty certain Arthur _‘_ _don’t do all that’_ , and he’s known him longer than even I have. Grew up with him, John did. They was close, y’know, back then. But I ain’t ever stopped trying. Men, women, working girls and civilians, I’ve tried ‘em all. Never had any success.” Charles didn’t look up from the roughly bow-shaped piece of wood.

“I wonder what happened.” 

Javier laughed. “You and me both, brother. I tried asking him, once. Asked if he was angling for priesthood, and told him he should probably find a different line of work, in the meantime.”

“Oh?” Charles still didn’t look up, but he imagined the story didn’t end with a heartfelt confession. Javier didn’t disappoint.

“Arthur ain’t afraid to lay folk out, if need be. It ain’t often, and the only person in the gang I’ve ever seen him  _really_ fight with is John—and Dutch never let that go on without breakin’ it up real quick. But way he looked at me, I thought I’d be dead and buried before anyone could stop him. He just got real quiet, rode out of camp for a while. When he came back, his knuckles were black and blue and he dropped $500 in the camp box. Dutch about had a heart attack.”

“And still, you keep trying.” Charles glanced up at Javier.

“What can I say? I like a little danger.” The conversation died there, both working on their respective projects, hiding up on the cliffs overlooking Blackwater and waiting for Trelawney to come back from town. Charles mulled over this new information, adding it to his mental list of things that made Arthur Morgan an absolute mystery to him, one he hoped he would get a chance to unravel.

//

“I can have tea, with Margaret!” Swanson slurred, his vacant eyes focused on some point behind Arthur’s shoulder. 

“Who is Margaret?” Arthur growled. Swanson didn’t reply, only collapsing to the ground, unconscious. Arthur sighed, scooping him up and setting him on the back of his horse. When Hosea’d told him to go meet the Reverend, he hadn’t had high hopes for whatever work he’d sussed out, but even those expectations had beenapparently too high. Playing a few hands of poker and winning $10 wasn’t exactly  a _good lead,_ but so be it. Arthur would toss the money in the pot and tell Dutch that Swanson was bringing money in. He’d wanted to head straight from Flatneck Station down to meet Charles, Josiah and Javier out in West Elizabeth, but now he had to make a detour to deposit the unconscious Reverend back in the safety of their camp. Arthur pulled his pocketwatch from the inner pocket of his coat.  _10:17_.  It was still early enough to drop Swanson off and make it across the Upper Montana by mid-afternoon. He nudged his still unnamed gelding along into a gallop, eager to get going. Behind him, Swanson continued his incoherent muttering. It was a fine day, and the ride through nice country did wonders for Arthur's mood. He'd been stewing about the fight with Tommy, snapping at Javier and making a general fool of himself in front of Charles for the past two days. He could only hope the scouting of Blackwater had distracted Charles enough for him to forget how much of a fool Arthur had acted the last time he'd seen him. Arthur dug in, eager to catch up with them in West Elizabeth.

//

The familiar prickle of tension that came with heat from the law ran up Arthur’s spine as he crossed from Big Valley into the Great Plains, with the Upper Montana forming a natural border between the two regions. This area sure was beautiful — Arthur felt it was a shame they’d been run out of it. A herd of pronghorn startled at his passage, loping away through the waving grass. Arthur kept his gelding at a brisk trot, not wanting to draw attention to himself but not wanting to linger, either. Fortunately, the only folk he saw on the road were a long way off, and he stuck to the little gametrails along the cliffs, assuming that was where Charles and Javier would be waiting. His presumption proved correct when he rounded the bend in the cliffs facing the city and saw Boaz and Taima, still tacked up and grazing by a patch of shrubbery under a tree. Arthur dismounted and crept into the small shelter at the edge of the cliff, joining Javier and Charles perched there, keeping watch on the city. As he approached, he heard the exchange between the two men.

“You see Sean?” Javier sounded antsy.

“No.” Charles, succinct as ever.

“Damn it, where’s Trelawney?” Javier growled.

Arthur crawled in the space between the two men, laying flat on his belly and scanning the city.

“Hey.” Arthur greeted. “Where is that little Irish bastard?”

“I’m not quite sure.” Charles replied, not taking his eyes away from his binoculars.

“That’s what Trelawney’s trying to find out.” Javier added.

“Has anyone been into Blackwater to see how things lie?” Arthur asked.

“Place is crawling with Pinkertons... bounty hunters, pictures of Dutch and Hosea.” Javier sounded grim.

“We got a lot of money sitting in that town.” Arthur sighed.

“And that’s where it’s going to remain, for now.” Javier finished. Arthur shifted, his left side brushing Charles. The broad man beside him glanced over, finally, and Arthur turned to meet his gaze. He expected...well, Arthur weren’t sure what he expected. Reproach, maybe. He’d acted like a fool in Valentine. They had a job to do here, a serious one, an incredibly dangerous one — he shouldn’t be distracted, and he shouldn’t expect Charles to be either. But at the same time, he couldn’t help but wonder what Charles was thinking, if he was angry with him. If he was disappointed that girl had left in a hurry. When their eyes met, Arthur saw no anger in those deep eyes. They burned into his own with naked curiosity, like Arthur was a buck Charles was stalking. It made Arthur flinch away, back to looking at the town.  _Coward,_ He berated himself internally. As a penance to himself, or maybe an excuse for his cowardice, Arthurheld a hand out. Charles understood what he was asking for and handed the binoculars over without a word, allowing Arthur to busy himself with scanning the city. Their hands brushed as he did so, sending warmth radiating up Arthur’s left side. He stubbornly kept his eyes fixed on Blackwater, making an earnest effort to focus.

“Why haven’t they hanged Sean, I wonder?” Arthur mused, still looking through Charles’s binoculars.

“I think he’s bait...or they want to trial him publicly.” Charles sounded disgusted. The sound of hooves behind them announced Trelawney’s arrival, quickly dismounting and scurrying to perch beside Javier.

“Gentlemen.” He greeted as he joined them. Arthur set the binoculars down on the rock in front of Charles, returning them. “Sean is being moved up the Upper Montana, then to a federal prison out west.”

“Damn.” Charles exhaled.

“Well, we can’t be rescuing people from some federal prison.” Arthur sighed. “We either rescue him now or... we cut him loose.” The suggestion felt bitter on Arthur’s tongue, loathe as he was to say it. But he couldn’t  not  say it, would never expect Javier and Charles and Trelawney to risk their lives without giving them an out. The thought of leading them into this, knowing damn well any of them could end up alongside Sean, made his skin crawl. The thought of Javier, or Josiah, or  _Charles_ —

“We’re not cutting anyone loose.” Charles growled, pinning Arthur with the type of reproachful look Arthur had been expecting when he first arrived, cutting into his thoughts.  _That answered that._ On his other side, Javier was nodding in agreement.

“Of course not.” Arthur conceded, sighing heavily. 

“Ike Skelding’s boys are moving him to a camp nearby before handing him over to the government.” Trelawney relayed what he had learned. Arthur did not want to know what he’d done to gain that information.

Arthur nodded. “So, I guess...” He paused, glancing back over his shoulder at Charles, still watching him carefully. “We need to stop them before they get to that camp.” He turned fully back to Charles, looking him in the eyes. Charles didn’t back away, and Arthur was aware of every inch of Charles’s broad warmth beside him, just a hairsbreadth away — hyperaware of Charles’s face inches from his own. “Charles, why don’t you head up on the north side, and we’ll head up on the other side of the valley and meet you. That way we have them in either direction.” As Arthur instructed Charles, he handed his binoculars back to Arthur. Arthur placed them in his satchel wordlessly, assuming Charles didn't want to be carrying them while scaling cliffs. _Be safe_ _._ Arthur thought as he watched Charles move away, disappearing into the brush with Taima following loyally behind him. Charles was the best tracker, the best hunter of them — it made sense to give him the stealth position. That rationale made sending him alone no easier. Arthur turned back to his two remaining companions, pushing his worries aside. They had a job to do. “Javier, Josiah, come on. Let’s go see.” And they rose from the cliffside, calling for their horses.

“You know, Arthur, the government... or people whom the government like, seem to be very angry.” Trelawney mused to him as they mounted up. "It seems you stirred up quite a hornet's nest in Blackwater."

“Sure, well... We’ll rescue Sean and then we’ll get ourselves lost, good and proper. It’s a big country.” Arthur replied, settling into the saddle and sending his gelding off at a trot. Javier and Josiah followed behind him. 

"And no money yet, it seems." Trelawney quipped.

"Dutch and Hosea know where the money's stashed." Arthur assured him.

"Oh, it must be wonderful to have such trust in one's parents. Mine would have sold me for a hogshead of ale—in fact, I think they tried."

“Let’s head upriver and find this boat.” Arthur did his best to not let Trelawney's apparent pessimism get to him.  They hugged the cliffs edge away from Blackwater, following the river north.

“Keep your eyes open for Pinkertons.” Javier called from the back of their little line. “They’ve got patrols out all over this area.” 

“Yes, south of the river West Elizabeth isn’t a very welcoming place right now.” Trelawney drolled.

“It’s definitely as bad as we feared in there, Arthur.” Javier confirmed.

“I keep hearing about this woman, Heidi McCourt...” Trelawney cut in again. “Some young mother they’re saying Dutch murdered on the boat?” Trelawney phrased it like a statement, but his words ticked up in a question. Arthur had heard that Dutch killed an innocent woman, and that knowledge had sat heavily on him since they’d left Blackwater behind. He hadn’t spoken about it with Hosea, but he could see the same weight on his father’s shoulders. Neither of them had spoken to Dutch about it, and it was a heady, present thing between the three of them. The reminder left Arthur feeling uneasy. He remained quiet, not sure what to say in response. Javier did the same.  They were close enough now to the river to see a large boat heading sluggishly upstream. Arthur pointed down at it.

“Down there, reckon those might be our boys.”

“Alright, gentlemen. Follow me.” Trelawney took the lead, continuing upriver. “Keep your guns away until we know it’s Sean, alright? I know what you two are like.”

"You think they can see us?" Arthur asked, not taking the bait. Trelawney had always been one to pick at Arthur, and he'd long since learned there was no use in starting a fight. Especially not now, on a job like this.

"If they can, we're just three fellers out on the trail. Act natural, we'll be fine." And they continued on. 

"So, you've been gone for a while." Arthur stated at Trelawney.

"Much as I love dodging the law and sleeping in the dirt with you derelicts, I do have other business to attend to." Trelawney replied dismissively.

"What happened to New York?" Arthur asked, remembering their conversations the last time they'd seen each other.

"You know how life is, never a straight road anywhere." Trelawney replied. Arthur snorted at him.

"Especially with you."

"Nice to know I'm missed, though." Trelawney snarked. "Have you run out of people to rob?"

"Oh, we'll never run out of people to rob."

"But without me you'll not find the caliber of victim that I find."

"Maybe. Anyway, we should keep it down." Arthur sighed, tiring of the directionless conversation.

"Come on, let's keep them in sight." Trelawney nudged Gwydion forward into a trot, Arthur and Javier following suit. The boat continued its steady crawl forward, slowly leaving the mouth of the river into Flat Iron behind. Arthur glanced back over his shoulder.

"You alright, Javier? You're quiet." 

"He hasn't stopped talking since we left you in Valentine. It's the longest ride of my life."

"Cute, dear boy, very cute..." Trelawney snarked. "Push up, come on now." Again Josiah urged them faster, keeping the riverboat in sight. "Apparently, there's a camp somewhere around here where the bounty hunters meet and transfer before continuing out west. I imagine that's where they're headed." The boat arrived at a delta tucked between the cliffs, the water choked with reeds and surrounded by mud, imprinted with the tracks of many men — presumably belonging to the bounty hunters in question. "Look — they've stopped! Let's see what we're dealing with here." Arthur pulled out the binoculars Charles had left with him, scanning the scene below them. He watched a handful of bounty hunters emerge from the boat, dragging a bound captive along with them. Just Arthur's luck, the captive's face was covered in burlap, making it impossible to be sure if it was _their_ captive, or just some other poor bastard.

"So who are these bounty hunters?" Javier asked.

"Don't know too much about Ike Skelding's boys, but I hear they're a big crew — and wild. Built some reputation in the last year or two." Arthur filled him in.

"That looks like Sean to me." Javier said as he watched the burlap covering was pulled off of the captive below them. A shock of bright red hair came into view, accompanied by a scuffle between one bound captive and five armed bounty hunters.

"Certainly kicking up enough of a fuss." The bounty hunters knocked the captive over, taking turns kicking him. That confirmed it for Arthur. "Yep, that's definitely Sean."

"Oh, they're giving him a decent kicking." Javier laughed.

"Well, you can only imagine the shit he's been giving them."

"Oh yes." Javier still sounded amused. The bounty hunters hauled Sean back to his feet, dragging him away from the riverbank.

"They're taking him up the canyon." Trelawney pointed out. Arthur moved his gaze upwards, using his borrowed binoculars to scan the far cliffs for any sign of a guard that may have spotted them. A lone figure, perched on an outcropping just below the cliff face on the far side, caught Arthur's attention. He focused his binoculars in, and realized it was Charles at the same moment Charles spotted them, waving in greeting. Arthur grinned, raising his own hand in a wave as well. It relieved Arthur to see his friend had made it this far safely.

"There's Charles, on the other side." Arthur said, reluctantly lowering the binoculars. "Let's go."

"What about the other two down there?" Javier asked as they kept moving.

"I've got an idea, follow me." Trelawney took the lead. They headed down the natural path cut through the cliff face, leading down to the riverbank. They dismounted at the base of the cliffs, relying on the rush of the river to cover the sound of their arrival. 

"We should do this quietly, if we can." Javier pointed out.

"Leave it to me, gentlemen." Trelawney said, still mounted on Gwydion. "I'll go around and create a distraction, then you two sneak across and do the dirty on them."

"Okay..." Javier nodded. He and Arthur crouched down at the riverbank, watching Trelawney make his way around the river to where the two guards were standing. Arthur drew his knife as Trelawney approached them.

"It's Bessie! My dear Bessie!" Trelawney shouted, staggering up to the guards.

"Woah, buddy, calm down." One of the guards tried to placate him, glancing to his counterpart for help.

"No, I will not calm down. If I lose Bessie, I lose everything!" Trelawney started wheezing heavily. "I'm having a fit!" Trelawney's theatrics sufficiently distracting the guards, Arthur followed Javier into the river, grimacing at the cold water seeping into his clothes. He wasn't sure he liked Trelawney's choice of distraction, wondering if it was yet another not so subtle jab at his _parents —_ it was no secret that all these years later, Hosea and Josiah still weren't fond of each other. Arthur had been young, and foolish, still recovering from the heartbreak Mary Gillis Linton had inflicted, when Dutch brought a potential business partner into camp named _Josiah Trelawney._ Needless to say, Arthur had been smitten with the strange, foppishly dressed magician with a knack for cons that rivaled Hosea. The tryst had been short lived, but Dutch and Hosea had been _furious_ the whole time. That particular fight had been a nasty one, with Bessie and Susan taking John into town to shield him from the worst of the yelling. Arthur had decried his fathers as hypocrites.

 _"You're the ones who showed me Whitman!"_ Arthur had shouted at them, still rumpled from the questionable circumstances they'd found him and Trelawney in.

 _"You think we care he's a man?"_ Dutch had asked, stung. 

_"You can spend your time with just about any man you want to, Arthur! Just not_ him, _for God's sake!"_ Hosea had been the angrier of the two, more willing to ruffle feathers to protect his family. Things between the two of them had fizzled out not long after, and then they'd moved back into the Idaho area, where Arthur ran back into that pretty waitress he'd first met after Mary called things off, and — well, that whole business was many long years dead and buried, now. Josiah had remained a good friend to Arthur through these years, and a damn good business partner to the gang besides. His distrust of Dutch and Hosea to necessarily do right by Arthur, and his encouragement of Arthur to think for himself, was an old topic he'd long learned to let lie — as much as Trelawney ever let _anything_ lie. Another memory came to Arthur, when they'd first met and Arthur had been asking him the secrets to his tricks, so discouraged by his inability to spin a yarn like Hosea and Dutch could. _The trick, dear Arthur,_ younger Trelawney had said, _is to make sure every lie is based on a truth._ Josiah weren't cruel, and Arthur chose to believe he was simply drawing on his own experiences, not picking at an old wound of Arthur's. Javier cut into his abstraction.

"You take the one on the left." Arthur nodded in agreement, slinking forward and flexing his grip on his knife. They took the two men down with a practiced, synchronized ease that came from years of working side by side. Trelawney watched them with uncritical eyes as he stood up, dusting the mud off of his somehow still pristine clothing. 

"A pleasure as always, gentlemen. I think you have it from here." Trelawney called, mounting up and riding away before Arthur or Javier could get a word out. They exchanged bemused glances — disappearing before the bullets started flying, in typical Trelawney fashion.

"Come on. Let's get up there." Javier led the way, coming to a stop once they reached the mouth of the canyon. They took cover behind a tumble of boulders, scanning the path leading up to the other side of the river. 

"I reckon' we're gonna have to shoot our way up, Javier." Arthur unshouldered his rifle, and Javier nodded in agreement, unholstering his sawed-off. 

"Ready when you are." Arthur lined up his shot, taking advantage of not yet being detected. In his periphery, he saw Javier doing the same.

"On my signal, then." A nod. Arthur flexed his trigger finger carefully. "One..." Deep inhale. "Two..." Slow exhale. "Three!" The crack of twin gunshots echoed up the canyon, and the two men nearest to them dropped. Chaos erupted immediately, the swarm of bounty hunters made aware of the threat encroaching on their payday. The smell of gunpowder and blood quickly perfumed the air, gunshots and shouts warring for dominance over the previously peaceful afternoon. Arthur kept firing, scarcely aware of the bullets whipping past his head, dangerously close. He and Javier pushed up the canyon, a dual force of fight and rage. They functioned like a well-oiled machine, plowing through their enemies easily. It felt good — this was a firefight they had walked into willingly, not an ambush. It was all adrenaline fueled focus, devoid of the terror that came with being caught off guard.

"Look, up on the ridge, there's Charles!" Javier called over to him once the last bounty hunter in the canyon with them had been dropped. Arthur followed his gaze, only to see Charles engaged in a...sword fight? The bounty hunter was wielding a machete, going hand to hand against Charles with his Tomahawk. Charles appeared to have all the footwork and weapon handling of a practiced swordfighter, and the bountyman was clearly in over his head. Arthur chuckled, making a mental note to ask Charles where in the _hell_ he had learned how to swordfight. Charles got the best of his opponent, downing him with a fierce _thwack_ of the Tomahawk blade. In the same instant, another bounty hunter stepped out from the cover of an oak tree, wide left of Charles, taking advantage of his distraction and a blind spot. Before the enemy could even plant his feet to line up a shot, Arthur sent a bullet through the man's forehead. Charles turned on the spot at the sound of the gunshot, and seeing Arthur had covered him, offered another small wave — a clear gesture of gratitude. Javier let out a low whistle. "Hell of a shot there, Arthur." Arthur shrugged off the praise, heart still galloping in his chest from the threat on his friend.

"C'mon, let's get up there and meet Charles."

"I'm right behind you!" Javier replied, following Arthur up the path out of the canyon, rounding the crest of the hill. Both men were on alert _—_ but no more bounty hunters appeared. Only Charles, waiting for them at the mouth of the canyon. He nodded in greeting. 

"Come on _—_ the camp is this way." He turned, leading Arthur and Javier farther into the Big Valley side of the river. 

"We should split up. Javier, you go left; Charles, you take the right side." Arthur instinctively took the lead, and the other two men followed suit, wordlessly falling into position. The bounty hunters knew they were coming, this time, and it quickly came to cutthroat shooting. Arthur worked his way up the middle of the camp, taking cover behind the camp supply crates. Javier and Charles flanked the camp, picking off the men along the outskirts. Sean was strung up by his feet, hanging from a tree on the far side of camp _—_ disgusted, he shot the rope, sending Sean tumbling onto the ground. "Take cover, kid _—_ _keep your head down_!" He shouted in between gunshots. It was cruel, Arthur felt, hanging a man upside down. They hadn't even done that to the O'Driscoll back in camp. The onslaught of enemy gunfire was thinning out, and Charles and Javier dropped back to Arthur's position to regroup. A handful of stragglers appeared at the top of the ridge, overlooking the camp.

"There's more of these bastards?" Charles asked, disgustedly. Arthur then noticed he was using a bow, and wondered when he'd had a chance to make one. _One more thing to ask him,_ Arthur thought wryly. Charles glanced over at him, seeming to notice Arthur's look _—_ his eyes widened suddenly, and he took aim. Arthur just had the time to dive out of the way before Charles let the arrow fly. He turned to see a bounty hunter, with said arrow stuck in his throat, falling from the top level of the watchtower. Arthur kicked himself for his distraction. _You damn fool, Morgan._

"Thanks, Charles. I owe ya one for that." Arthur sighed, beginning to drag his ass out of the dirt. Charles cut him off, offering his hand. Arthur took it, marveling at the warmth and strength just in the palm of Charles's hand, and Charles hauled him to his feet. He staggered, too close, and he'd swear it was amusement he could read on Charles's face. Charles didn't back away immediately.

"Don't mention it. You did the same for me." And he squeezed Arthur's hand once, firmly, before releasing him and stepping back. Arthur could still feel the ghost of the sensation of Charles's warm hand gripping his own, and he flexed his fingers, chasing the sensation. 

"I think that's the last of them!" Javier called, coming over to join them and bursting the bubble that had formed around them during the exchange. Feeling off balance, Arthur turned, once again unsheathing his knife. 

"You know, you're a lot less ugly from that other angle, Arthur." Sean's brogue was more pronounced than usual after his ordeal.

"C'mon." Arthur sighed, hauling Sean to his feet, much the same way Charles had just done for him _—_ making sure to step back, keeping a healthy distance between them. He clapped Sean on the back and turned, walking back toward the horses.

"Do I get a hug, Arthur? A warm embrace for a lost brother, now found?" Sean asked pitifully. Arthur laughed, turning back and clapping a hand down on Sean 's shoulder _—_ mostly to make sure he could keep the kid at an arm's length.

"You know... nothing means more to me than this gang, the bond we share... It's the most real thing to me. I would kill for it, I would happily die for it, but in spite of all that... I would have easily left you here to rot if Charles hadn't stopped me."

"I don't believe a word of that, Arthur." Sean piped back.

"Get him out of here!" Arthur gave Sean a shove in Javier's direction. Javier caught him, but Sean kept facing Arthur.

"You're a great man, Arthur Morgan." Javier stepped between the two of them, but Sean leaned his upper body around Javier, still talking. "The kind a young whippersnapper can really admire."

"Oh, shut up!" Arthur growled, losing patience. "Right, we should split up. Javier, will you escort Mister Macguire back to camp? Charles, best you ride separately." Charles raised his fingers to his lips, letting loose a sharp whistle to summon Taima. "Be careful, there's patrols everywhere." Sean and Charles moved off, but Javier paused, turning to Arthur.

"What about you?" He asked.

"I'm gonna see what's worth taking here _—_ I'll meet you back there as soon as I can." He slapped Javier's shoulder lightly, earning a shrug.

"Alright." Javier turned, heading towards the horses. "Okay, come on." Sean was mounted up on the back of Boaz, waiting for him.

"Have I got stories for you!"

"Yeah... I can't wait." Javier deadpanned as he mounted up. 

"I imagine you all missed me a lot, but fear not _—_ the joy is back in your lives now." Sean continued. Charles kicked Taima into a trot, outpacing Boaz. Arthur turned back to the camp as the hoofbeats faded into the distance behind him. Intent on giving the camp a quick once over before heading out, Arthur found he was eager to get back to the gang's own camp, a rarity for him. His head buzzed with thoughts of what had transpired today, and his hand still felt too warm as we worked. Camp stripped and pockets a few dollars heavier, Arthur whistled for his horse, mounting up and setting off for home.


	8. Horseshoe Overlook IV: Welcome Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here we go babeyyy >:^)

_May 24, 1899 (continued)_

Sean's return to camp had been a joyous affair — like Lazarus rising from the dead. Charles had watched as the folk around him fell into the rhythm of a party — whiskey bottles and raucous laughter came out of hiding, while guitar strums and banjo twangs filled the gaps in between. Once things had started getting rowdy, Charles had grabbed the repeater and made his way up the trail out of camp. He found a nice spot, where a fallen tree tucked against a still standing maple formed a natural alcove, to keep watch for the night. That was where he sat, still, keeping a quiet vigil and watching the moon climb higher in the sky. He was still close enough to camp to make out the noise of the party, drunken speeches and all; but he was far away enough to find some peace in his solitude. Going on eight months with the gang, now, and Charles still found the large, loud family a bit claustrophobic at times. He was more than happy to take the watch tonight and let the rest of them have their fun. Besides, Charles had a lot on his mind as of late, and the late night watch shifts were his favorite time to puzzle things through. Never mind that his current thoughts were a tad more complicated than usual. The abstract _something_ between him and Arthur that had started in Colter was getting difficult to brush off as mere coincidence. Charles wondered where it would lead. He wondered if he left it alone, if Arthur would ever broach the subject himself. Somehow, he didn't think so. But Charles wasn't sure he was in any position to judge. Making the first move himself? Just thinking about it, to himself, in the relative privacy of the woods at night, was daunting. The very real possibility of misreading things weighed on him, wondering how Arthur would react if that were the case. He didn't _think_ Arthur was the kind of man to judge him, or worse, try to hurt him for it, but the concept was still mortifying. He wasn't even sure how to go about courting someone. He had been with people before, sure, but only in the form of short-lived encounters, both parties well aware they'd likely not see each other again come morning. This was entirely new territory for him. Yet, daunting though it may be, Charles found he _wanted_ to court Arthur. He didn't want meaningless sex — that was what he knew, and he wanted so much more. He wanted to _know_ Arthur, and in return be known by him. That realization, paired with what he'd learned from Javier, was terrifying, but at the same time it was freeing. He may not have any idea how to go about this, or where it would lead, but making up his mind on the matter lifted a weight off of Charles. At that precise moment, allowing the first tentative thoughts of pursuing Arthur to bloom hopefully in his mind, the sound of stumbling footsteps and rustling brush caught Charles's attention.

"Who's there? Show yourself!" Charles called, rising to his feet, repeater in hand. And then Arthur came into view, looking suspiciously glassy-eyed, swaying slightly. Charles relaxed immediately, realizing who the intruder was.

"Charles! I been lookin' all over for ya!" Arthur cried out, his drawl more pronounced than usual. He had cleaned up after the day of riding across state lines and killing bounty hunters — His hat and coat were gone, wearing only a union suit under his suspenders. His hair looked slightly damp, as if he'd stopped for a bath on his way back to camp. His nose was red, either from the whiskey or the brisk wind. Charles found it endearing.

"Is that so?" Charles asked, amused. There was also something endearing about the way Arthur spoke, too loud, while trying so earnestly not to tip over. Charles realized he'd never seen Arthur drunk before. He then noticed Arthur's cargo — two bowls of stew, sloshing precariously, and a whiskey bottle tucked under his arm. "Let me help with that." Charles carefully extricated the goods from Arthur's grip, careful not to upset his already questionable balance. Arthur, despite his size, could normally move like a ghost, frequently startling folks by appearing at their side silently. The reason he hadn't recognized Arthur's approach was because of how much noise he'd been making. Charles set the bowls and the whiskey bottle carefully on the natural bench of the fallen tree, then steadied Arthur with a hand cupped under his elbow. "Come on, big guy, let's sit." Arthur dropped to the ground with a relieved sigh, settling back against the log. Charles took a seat adjacent to him, leaned back against the maple. Arthur looked at him, grinning.

"I couldn't find you anywhere, Charles. Hosea said you was on watch, but it's a party!" Arthur waved his hand back in the general direction of the camp. _He asked Hosea for me?_ Charles thought, wondering if that was a Sign. He immediately felt silly, blaming it on too much time listening to Mary-Beth. Arthur continued. "You're always workin', Charles, so I bought you some dinner! Ya gotta take a break sometime. Gonna wear yourself out like that..." Arthur's rambling petered out, and he peered at Charles. "I'm distubin' ya, ain't I?" Charles laughed warmly, shaking his head and grabbing the stew bowls.

"Not at all, Arthur." He handed one of the bowls to Arthur. "Thank you for bringing me dinner and keeping me company." Arthur raised his bowl in cheers, the stew slopping precariously as he did so. The two of them ate in companionable silence. Arthur set his bowl aside, reaching for the whiskey bottle at Charles's side. Charles beat him to it, tugging it out of his reach. Arthur made a mournful noise, staring at Charles in betrayal. 

"What was that for? Here I was, bringin' you dinner like a... like a housewife or something!" The choice of analogy made Charles flash another grin at Arthur, wondering how he'd gotten so good at coaxing those out. It felt like he was making up for a lifetime of solitude, whenever Arthur was around. 

"I know. You'll thank me in the morning." Arthur grumbled petulantly at Charles's logic, and waved a hand at the forbidden whiskey bottle. 

"You should at least have a drink, then. Since you're missin' the party and all." Charles complied, uncapping the bottle and taking a hearty swig. "So, how come you're out here all by your lonesome, Mister Smith?" Arthur asked. Charles took another swill, relishing the pleasant burn in his chest as it went down. 

"I ain't really one for parties." Somewhere nearby, an owl hooted overhead. Another hoot, farther away, came in reply. The glow of campfires and bawdy singing from the camp just barely reached their little slice of the world, tucked away. Arthur guffawed.

"Believe it or not, neither am I." At Charles's disbelieving look, Arthur grinned. "Usually."

"Sure, Arthur." In spite of his teasing, Charles believed Arthur. This was the first time he'd ever seen the man not working, or looking like he was worrying about something. Not that he was going to admit that with Arthur looking at him, all wounded and faux outrage.

"Are you laughin' at me, Mister Sm—" _hic_ "—Smith?" Charles said nothing, staring coolly back at him, and Arthur chuckled. "Alright, I suppose m'pretty drunk. S'been a long time." He sighed, seeming much more sober suddenly. "Fuck, m'really drunk, ain't I?" 

"I'd say so, Mister Morgan." Charles patted his knee comfortingly. "Don't worry, your secret's safe with me." Arthur grinned sloppily at him, and Charles thought, _Maybe parties aren't so bad, after all._

"Actually, Charles, I had a question for you. More than one... I think."

"Oh?"

"Mm-hmm... I'm tryin' to remember what they were, exactly." Arthur's eyes slid closed as he said that, looking more like he was falling asleep than like he was thinking about something. Charles glanced up at the moon, gauging it had to be close to midnight by now. He wished he had a pocketwatch on him. 

"So you were just softening me up with food and whiskey, so you could get me to spill all my secrets, is that it?" Arthur's eyes opened, and he gaped comically at Charles. 

"That ain't it at all! I know I had somethin' to ask you... and I wanted to keep you company, is all."

"Mm-hmm. Well, for the record, your company is much more effective as a bribe than Pearson's cooking." Charles informed him. Arthur laughed.

"That _ain't_ sayin' much." Arthur tilted his head back against the log, eyes hooded sleepily. Charles viewed his side profile, illuminated on one side by pale moonlight, and on the other by the distant glow of campfires. Charles thought he looked very handsome like this. 

"You remember those questions yet, Arthur?" Charles asked. Arthur's eyes widened, and he lifted his head. He opened his satchel, rummaging through it.

"Actually, I just did. You left your binoculars with me today, I needed to get 'em back to ya..." 

"That's not a question." At that, Arthur rolled his eyes. The gesture screamed John, and Charles was reminded they were brothers. He was starting to think everything Arthur did was endearing to him. 

"No, but it's one of the reasons I wanted to find ya." And Arthur produced the binoculars from his satchel, finally, but Charles shook his head.

"I have another pair — you keep those." Arthur's eyes went real wide, shocked.

"A bow, now binoculars... you in the habit of givin' all the fellers in the gang gifts?" Arthur asked.

"No, just the pretty ones." Charles joked, remembering Arthur's outrage at being called _pretty boy_ in Valentine. 

"You might need two pairs of binoculars if you're sayin' that, Charles." Arthur grumbled, but he obliged, tucking the binoculars back into his satchel. He produced a cigarette and a matchbook instead. He fumbled with the match, struggling to light it. When it finally struck, he dropped it in the dirt, the flame dying immediately. " _Goddamnit_!" Arthur growled.

"Here, let me." Charles leaned forward, taking the matchbook from Arthur's hands. He removed a match, and struck it against the log. Carefully cupping the match so the flame wouldn't go out, he leaned closer still, lighting the cigarette still dangling from Arthur's lips. Smoke curled between them, and Charles leaned back. Arthur groaned as he took a drag.

"Thanks, Charles." Arthur held the cigarette out, offering Charles a drag in thanks. The two of them passed it back and forth, trading drags, sitting in a cloud of heady tobacco smoke. Charles took the final drag, stubbing it out in the dirt. He looked up to see Arthur watching him. "You said somethin' about havin'..." _hic_ "—secrets?"

"I suppose so. Doesn't everyone?" He deflected, glancing away from Arthur's heavy stare. Arthur huffed.

"Sure, I guess. Just made me wonder what yours are." Arthur asked. Charles didn't answer immediately, pondering the question. So much of his life on his own — the concept of secrets felt foreign, almost. No need to have a secret when no one knew you well enough to need to hide things. Or maybe it was the opposite: his whole existence was one big secret, hidden away from the entire world. Charles glanced up at Arthur, who was watching him, toying with a twig he'd plucked off of the log. The question felt like an opportunity, but Charles knew now wasn't the time.

"I'll tell you my secret once you're sober." Arthur threw the twig in his hands at Charles, missing by several feet to the left. Charles quirked an eyebrow at him.

"That ain't very nice, Charles. I'll just ask you again in the morning." Arthur grumbled. Charles turned his attention to the repeater across his lap, adjusting the sights carefully. Whoever had been on watch last had absolutely decimated them.

"I doubt you'll remember this in the morning, Arthur." Charles replied, not looking up, keeping his expression neutral.

"We'll see." Arthur's voice was slurred, though it sounded more from sleep than from whiskey. Charles finally glanced over at him again, noticing his eyes were drooping closed.

"Arthur? You fallin' asleep over there?" Charles laughed, reaching out to prod Arthur's leg.

"M'awake." He grumbled, shifting his position, blinking his eyes open with moderate difficulty.

"If you say so." Charles pulled some gun oil out, working it over the repeater with a rag.

"Charles?" Arthur started.

"Yes, Arthur?"

"I remembered what I was gonna ask you." He sounded a bit more awake now.

"Go ahead, then." Charles encouraged, curious what was on Arthur's mind.

"When did you make a new bow?" That question threw Charles for a loop, quickly raking through his memories of their hunting trip. He'd mentioned that to Arthur, hadn't he?

"When I was waiting for you and Trelawney to show in West Elizabeth. That tree Javier and I were camped by had a solid branch that caught my eye." He decidedly did not mention what had driven him to the point of desperately needing a distraction, or any of what Javier had told him.

"Oh." Arthur let the subject drop, and Charles wondered if he was intentionally trying to drive him insane with curiosity. The repeater was as clean as it was ever going to be, so Charles abandoned his task to meet Arthur's gaze. "Where did you learn to swordfight?"

 _"What?"_ Charles was baffled. Arthur looked at him like _he_ was the crazy one.

"Today, when you were up on the cliffs, fighting that bounty hunter with a machete. You was basically sword fighting him with the tomahawk." _Oh._ Charles chuckled.

"Not too long after I went off on my own, I ended up on the coast. I spent some time with a few pirates. I never thought of it as sword fighting, though I suppose that's what it's called. That method of combat just always stuck with me." Arthur was staring at him incredulously.

"You are a mystery, Mister Smith."

"Pot, meet kettle." Charles laughed.

"Me? I'm no mystery." Arthur drawled, dragging one hand across the back of his neck.

"I think there's more to you than even _you_ realize, Arthur." At that, Arthur ducked his head, but not wearing his hat, the gesture was rendered mostly ineffectual. Charles thought he could see a flush heating his face, and wondered if that's what happened every time he hid. "How did you even recognize it as sword fighting, anyway?" Charles asked. Arthur glanced up quickly, like the thought hadn't occurred to him either.

"Hosea had me read a lot when I was young. Treasure Island was always his favorite. I thought it was boring, but... I guess some of it stuck with me." Charles stared at him, for a moment, taking that in. He broke out in laughter, the whole body, shaking to your core kind.

"I stand by what I said, Arthur. Your company is infinitely more pleasant than Pearson's stew." Charles told him, still laughing. Arthur grumbled at him, ducking his face again.

"Kinda hard to take you seriously when you're laughing at me." Charles made an effort to school his features.

"How often do you see _Pearson_ make me this happy?" He asked.

"Fair enough." Arthur grinned, looking up to the canopy of branches above their heads. Charles took another healthy pull from the whiskey bottle, his laughter subsiding. He finished the remainder of the whiskey bottle slowly, enjoying the warmth in his limbs and the cool night air around him. He enjoyed the rustling of creatures in the night, and he enjoyed Arthur's soothing, quiet presence at his side. He realized he was _happy._ Not surviving, not content — He was _happy._ Charles turned to Arthur, and saw his head was tilted back against the log, breathing deep and even.

"Arthur." No response. " _Arthur."_ Charles reached out, gripping Arthur's wrist gently, shaking him slightly.

"I'm awake." He didn't even bother to lift his head. Charles was fairly sure his eyes were still closed, too. He rose to his feet.

"Come on, Arthur. You don't wanna sleep there." Arthur blinked his eyes open, peering blearily up at Charles, towering over him. 

"How do you know?"

"I know everything." Charles deadpanned. Arthur's eyes slipped closed again. Charles sighed, ducking down and sliding his arm around Arthur's waist, slinging Arthur's arm over his own shoulders and hauling him to his feet. Arthur let out a startled _hmph_ of protest, but otherwise allowed Charles's manhandling without complain. The two of them staggered back into camp together, Charles supporting most of Arthur's weight. The party had reached its end, it seemed; most of the gang members were passed out, strewn throughout the camp wherever they had passed out. One of the few still awake was Hosea, peering up at them as they passed, looking ready to scold whatever fool was still up and making noise at this hour. His gaze softened when he saw them. 

"Thanks for keepin' an eye on that fool, Charles." Hosea thanked him. 

"Don't mention it. I'll get him to bed." Charles replied as they passed, unable to stop on the off chance Arthur slipped from his grasp and refused to get up again. They finished their trek in Arthur's tent — mercifully, the flaps were tied up, making it easier on Charles to keep his word to Hosea. Charles lowered his shoulder, gently easing Arthur onto his cot. Arthur landed on his side, but on the way down grabbed a hold of Charles's shirt. It was the deerskin tunic he'd worn under his coat in Colter — soft and pliable, and Arthur clung to it in his sleep. The gesture was endearingly innocent, and Charles chuckled softly. 

"You planning on letting go, Arthur?" He asked. Arthur grumbled something incoherent in his sleep but didn't open his eyes. Charles gently pried Arthur's fingers loose from the soft fabric, setting his hands gently on the cot beside his head. Arthur nuzzled his head into the pillow and curled up more tightly, drawing his limbs in close as if he were cold. Charles grabbed the blanket draped over the trunk at the end of the cot, carefully spreading it over Arthur's sleeping form. A sense of _d_ _éjà vu_ came over him, and Charles was struck by how much had changed for him since Colter. He rested a hand on the top of Arthur's head, careful not to disturb him.

 _"Goodnight, Arthur."_ He murmured quietly, turning and taking his leave. Charles made his way back out of camp to continue watch through the night. On his way out, Hosea caught his eyes and grinned at him, offering him a sleepy salute. Charles flushed from head to toe, retreating to his post. He spent the remainder of the night lost in the smell of whiskey and tobacco, the feeling of the warm weight of an arm around his shoulder, and the sound of a southern drawl exaggerated with drink and sleep. The Van der Linde gang had their first stroke of good luck in a long while, that night; for the first time in his life, Charles was unprepared for danger. He was a million miles away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to clear the air on something. I never read Moby Dick. I have no idea if there's sword fighting in it. I adore classic lit, and I realized I couldn't think of a single book from this era that involved pirates (If anyone can recommend any that would be fantastic) I was googling "pirate books circa 1800" like crazy, but nothing conclusive came up. So. If anyone has read Moby Dick and wants to confirm that my stab in the dark was correct, that would be kind. Or tell me I'm wrong and point me in the direction of an actual reference 😂 regardless just accept its a nautical reference and bear with me, thanks :) I just. Really loved that little easter egg r* added where it's implied Charles knows how to swordfight, and I had to throw that in.


	9. Horseshoe Overlook V: Bison

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for canon-typical violence and racism, plus some animal death and gore. You know what's going on here.

_May 25, 1899_

Arthur was awoken suddenly by earsplitting cries. _Goddamn roosters._ The bird's calling seemed to warble perfectly in tune with the throb in Arthur's skull. He groaned, tugging the pillow up over his head, trying to block out the assaulting noise and glare of the sunrise. The previous night was a blur, coming to him in fits and starts. Sean had been giving a drunken speech when he'd ridden into camp, running into Dutch — he'd grabbed his first whiskey — Marston and Abigail fighting, two whiskeys into his night — checking in with Abigail and Mrs. Adler after that, grabbing his third whiskey — picking a fight with Marston for complaining about Abigail, fourth whiskey in his hand — Dutch and Hosea sitting on the outskirts of camp, clinging desperately to each other's hands, only looking up when their eldest son ambled by for another drink — was that number five? — Sean and Karen screwing in John's tent, grabbing another drink _so I can stand all their racket!_ — singing with Uncle, Karen and Javier, and switching to a beer this time, because the whiskey crate was too far away — Swanson accosting him when he went back for another whiskey, thanking him for his help and giving him a pocket watch he'd stolen from those men he'd been playing poker with — He'd left Swanson behind, doing his rounds, realizing Charles was nowhere to be found — _Who are you looking for, Arthur? — Have you seen Charles? — I believe he's keeping watch tonight —_

Arthur groaned, rolling onto his back. He recalled grabbing two bowls of stew and heading out looking for Charles. Their conversation was hazy in his mind. He remembered laughter. He remembered Charles telling him he liked his company more than Pearson's cooking — trying to return the binoculars — _only the pretty ones_ —

The rest of the night was a blur, and trying to think hurt too much. Arthur got the distinct impression he had made a fool of himself yet again. He groaned, struggling into a sitting position. He noticed then that his spare blanket was draped over him, something his drunken self of the previous night most definitely did _not_ do. The realization that it was probably Charles, and this wasn't the first time the man had tucked him in for the night, had heat rushing to Arthur's face. Arthur staggered to his feet, grabbing his hat and jamming it on his head as he emerged from his tent to block out the agonizing glare of the early morning sunlight. As he stood outside of his tent, surveying the camp and struggling to wake up, Arthur realized the rest of the gang was in no better shape. John and Dutch's tents both still had the flaps drawn shut. Uncle, Sean, and Javier were all passed out around the campfire, surrounded by empty bottles. The Reverend had made it as far as his lean-to, but was sleeping on the ground, his bedroll draped over his head. Lenny and Pearson were both asleep at the poker table. Susan and Strauss, even, were still asleep, though they had made it to their beds. Jack was awake, curled up next to Abigail and waiting for her to wake up. Arthur sighed, assuming no coffee was made and there were chores waiting for him to get to. He set off for the cookfire, knowing he needed to at least brew some coffee before he could function. Hosea was still asleep, which was a rarity at this hour, and Arthur assumed he'd been kept up late by the ruckus of the party. Bill was passed out a few feet shy of his bedroll, face down in the dirt, snoring loudly. The space between them was empty, with Lenny at the poker table and Charles —

In the same instant Arthur realized Charles was unaccounted for, the brisk breeze typical of Horseshoe Overlook picked up, carrying the smell of fresh coffee and... _something,_ Arthur couldn't quite identify, but it smelled delicious. He realized Charles was crouched by the cookfire, fiddling with the coffee pot. As if he felt himself being watched, Charles glanced up, rising to his feet and meeting Arthur's eyes. Spotted, Arthur began to make his way over, feeling exposed with last night's conversation still a haze. His apprehension quickly melted into delight when Charles pressed a mug of hot coffee into his hands. 

"I figured you were gonna need that this morning." Charles said, as if hot coffee in the morning needed an explanation. Arthur took a deep pull, groaning in pleasure as the warmth chased the ache of his hangover out of his limbs. He wondered how Charles had kept watch through the night, made coffee, _and_ looked entirely unaffected. It wasn't fair. 

"You're a lifesaver, Charles." Charles didn't reply to Arthur immediately, turning his attention to the stew pot and ladling that _something_ into a bowl. Arthur was still too hungover to pay much attention until Charles stepped into his space, offering him the bowl and rousing him from his stupor. 

"I made breakfast." Arthur took the bowl warily, and Charles chuckled, turning to fill a bowl for himself. "It's only fair, seeing as you brought me dinner last night."

"I didn't _cook_ you dinner last night."

"Yeah, well..." Charles trailed off, glancing over at Pearson, still snoring at the poker table. "You need _food_ for a hangover." That got a laugh out of Arthur, and Charles jerked his head. "Come on, let's sit." Arthur trailed after Charles, and the two of them stopped to sit on the rock at the edge of camp, behind Pearson's wagon. Arthur tucked into his breakfast, tentatively at first, then with more gusto. 

"What's in this?" Arthur asked.

"Scrambled eggs, smoked deer, and thyme." Charles replied, focused on his own breakfast. 

"Figures." Arthur snorted.

"What?" Charles asked.

"I was kinda hoping there would be _something_ you ain't good at. But cooking ain't it."

"It wasn't really...cooking. I just kind of threw everything in a pot. And stirred."

"Sure, keep bein' modest. Don't fool me." Arthur took another bite. "It's real good, Charles. Thank you."

Charles kept his eyes on his breakfast, keeping his expression from Arthur. "No trouble. Like I said, I figured you'd need it after last night."

"Me? I didn't drink half as much as some of those damn fools."

"Yeah... well. They can fight over the rest." Arthur snorted at Charles's response and tossed back the last dregs of his coffee, fighting the grin he wanted to break into at that. He rose to his feet, taking the bowl and mug and dunking them in the wash bin. Turning back to Charles, Arthur found himself floundering for what to say.

"Hope I wasn't too much of a fool last night, Charles."

"Not at all. I enjoy your company — even when you're drunk." And the raw honesty of that answer tugged at _something_ in Arthur's chest. He looked off toward the cliffs, and grunted.

"Well. I appreciate you not letting me sleep on the ground like the rest of these fools."

"Oh, so you do remember last night, then?" If Arthur didn't know better, he would swear Charles was _teasing_ him.

"Well — some of it. Last I remembered I was with you, so I assumed I had you to thank for that." He stuttered out. Charles just gave him a nod.

"You'd do the same for any of us." Charles replied. Arthur sighed, glancing back towards the camp, feeling the call of horses to be fed, wood to be chopped and basins to be refilled.

"Well, I'm sure there's plenty that needs doing. I best get to it." But before he could drag himself away to start on any of it, some reckless impulse had him turning back to Charles, speaking before he could think better of it. "Say, what you doin' today?"

"I'm going hunting." Charles rose to his feet, going to place his own dishes with Arthur's in the wash basin. Arthur found himself following.

"What you huntin'?" Charles turned back to him, leaning on the back of Pearson's wagon, arms folded and watching him. His gaze made Arthur feel a bit like _he_ were the one being hunted. 

"The greatest of gifts." For lack of anything better to do, Arthur pulled out two cigarettes, offering one to Charles. The other man happily accepted, and Arthur lit both cigarettes.

"An unguarded stagecoach?" He asked.

"No, you simple-minded fool." Charles replied. The fondness in Charles's tone countered the words themselves, and Arthur felt warm. He blamed it on the cigarette. "Bison."

"Bison?" Arthur asked. He thought of the massive beasts he remembered from just outside of Blackwater, wondering how one would even go about hunting them.

"Bison." Charles confirmed. "From which you can get anything. There's some over on the plains, I believe. I saw a couple a long way off earlier." Charles discarded his smoke, leading Arthur over to his tent, swapping the bow on his shoulder for a rifle. Bill's snores stuttered, then continued. Arthur watched Charles contemplatively. 

"Well. Good luck." Charles nodded his thanks at that, turning to head out — and then he paused, turning back to Arthur.

"You wanna come with me? I'll show you how we hunt one." It was a casual enough question — they had hunted together before, even. But something in Charles's face looked like unmasked vulnerability, and Arthur realized this wasn't the same thing at all. Colter had been out of necessity, Charles unable to hunt on his own and Arthur lacking the know-how. He hadn't asked, simply snapped at Arthur to come along, impatience and hunger and callous indifference. This time, he was _asking._ It was up to Arthur whether he wanted to say yes or not. And it wasn't lost on Arthur the significance of the offer — Charles was offering up a piece of himself, his family and his heritage to Arthur, and Arthur alone. That in mind, Arthur's answer didn't take any second guessing on his part.

"Sure, why not."

"Come on then." Charles turned away, and the two men approached the horses. Arthur's gelding looked up as they approached, ears pricked. He ambled over to meet Arthur, greeted with a carrot and a brush. The two men tacked up quickly, eager to get going. Arthur found he felt almost human despite the night he'd had. Charles glanced over, meeting Arthur's eyes over the horses backs.

"You come up with a name for him yet?" Charles asked. Arthur hummed, giving the horse a pat and tightening his cinch.

"Well... I ain't sure I'm keeping him yet." Arthur replied. Charles nodded, walking around Taima's shoulder to gather her bridle in one hand, guiding the bit to her teeth with the other. Arthur followed suit. "I named him Hermes. God of thieves."

"It's a good name."

"I thought so." The two mounted up, setting off at a brisk trot. Hermes seemed happy to fall in alongside Taima, taking in the morning sights with bright eyes and a skip in his step. Arthur gave him a gentle scratch on the withers.

"It was before my time, of course, but my mother used to tell me stories of how her tribe moved with the bison." Charles began. "They lived almost as one. Where the bison went, my people went." The switch from _my mother's tribe_ to _my people_ was not lost on Arthur. "They were the center of all life — we couldn't survive without them. They provided us with everything: food, clothing, shelter, tools. There was a lot of respect." Arthur chuckled, touched by Charles's honesty. He admired the life and the people his words painted a picture of.

"I don't remember much of my childhood, but I think my people... we just moved with the whiskey." Arthur joked, earning another one of Charles's laughs. He treasured every break in stoicism he got.

"Well, my father did that too." Arthur turned Taima off of the road, into the waving sea of plains grass. "Let's head over here, to the left." Arthur found he wanted to hear more, wanted to keep Charles talking while he was willing to do so.

"So... your mother's tribe, were they from this area, then?" He asked.

"No — her tribe was Lakota. They were a part of the Sioux Nation, up in the North and Midwest. As far as I know, I was born in North Dakota. The land there... well, in the summer, it's similar to the Great Plains in West Elizabeth. In the winter it was worse than the Grizzlies." Charles said. Arthur nodded, absorbing this new information about his friend. He could almost picture it, Charles as a boy, wrapped in buffalo hides and braving an icy winter, looking at the constellations with his mother. The thought made him smile.

"Do you miss it?" Arthur asked. 

"Sure. Sometimes I wonder what life would be like if we had stayed with the tribe — if my mother would still be alive. Or if I should go back, looking for them. If I'd even be able to find them, if they would remember me. Or welcome me." Charles sighed, absentmindedly running a hand through Taima's mane. "But there's nothing to be gained by dwelling on it. Perhaps, if we had stayed, my mother still would have died. Maybe if I went looking for my tribe, I would find out they had all died, too. I think it's better to cherish the memories I still have; the lessons they taught me, and just keep looking forward." Charles glanced over at Arthur, flashing him a barely-there, blink-and-you'll-miss-it smile. "Besides, if things had gone differently for me, I wouldn't be around to keep an eye on you, would I?"

Arthur let out a very undignified squawk at the unexpected teasing. If Charles wanted to move on to lighter topics, he wouldn't begrudge him that. "So playin' nursemaid to some old gunslinger is your idea of fun, is it?"

"I believe it is, Mister Morgan." Something in Charles's tone changed, prompting Arthur to look up. "I'm glad to be here with you." Despite the land rolling beautifully, endlessly in every direction, Arthur felt like the entire world had disappeared, falling away and only leaving him and Charles, the horses they rode and the patch of grass beneath their hooves. And Arthur desperately wanted _something_ to say; _I'm glad you're here too, Charles,_ because he meant it. Whatever Charles meant by that — even though the _with you_ felt a bit pointed, he was good at convincing himself it wasn't — Arthur was glad he'd met him, glad he had the beautiful weather and landscape to explore with Charles at his side. He was grateful for Charles's steadfast presence, tucking him in when he fell asleep in random places and making sure chores got done even when Arthur wasn't there to do them. He was grateful for this stoic, hardworking man who had thrown in with their lot, protecting them as fiercely as if he'd been by their side for the past twenty years, volunteering to keep watch when everyone else was too busy getting drunk, always coming home with food to keep them fed and money for supplies. But Arthur had never been any good with words, and even worse with displays of emotion; the words died in his throat, Charles pointed to something in the distance, and the moment passed.

"Over there, you see them all? Incredible, aren't they?" Charles asked, voice filled with awed respect. Arthur followed Charles's gaze, and that was when he noticed the herd. There were about fifteen bison, mothers with their babies, and a bull, scattered loosely across the hillside. "We should only kill one of them. I'll keep them ringed in and you see if you can bring one down, okay? Clean as you can." 

"Okay." Arthur replied. He felt humbled by how much trust Charles had in him, to let Arthur carry out this hunt and show the creatures as much respect as his own tribe had. With a sharp nudge to her ribs, Charles sent Taima galloping forward, approaching the bison herd at an angle. The herd saw Charles coming and tried to flee. Massive heads rose from the grass, wearing crowns of horns and wooly hide. Their eyes rolled and they loosed bellowing snorts, and the bison moved as one away from the oncoming threat. Charles rode clear past the herd, keeping Taima at a steady gallop. He whooped as he passed, riling them further. Once they'd gone past the herd, he brought Taima around in an arc — the spotted mare cut like a ranch horse — and the herd reacted, once again rolling like a wave away from them, bringing them at a diagonal of Arthur: close enough for him to line up a direct shot, but not quite head on and risking getting him trampled. The effortless grace with which Charles handled the herd took Arthur's breath away. He let his eyes scan the herd, trying to pick out an individual target. He zeroed in on one, a bit separate from the rest. A cow, judging by the horns on her head — much smaller than that of a bull. She had an udder, but no calf by her side, and she was limping. Arthur assumed she had lost a calf to a predator, and gotten herself hurt in the process. In one fluid movement, Arthur drew his rifle from his saddle scabbard without taking his eyes off of his target. Charles, likely picking up on Arthur's wordless intentions, turned Taima sharply beside the injured bison. She lurched awkwardly away from the horse and rider, cutting herself off from the herd and sending herself in Arthur's direction. As soon as she turned, Arthur lined up his shot and pulled the trigger. The violent _crack_ of the rifle rang across the Heartlands, and the lone bison dropped to her knees, slumping onto her side and heaving one last breath before going still. Charles drew Taima to a halt beside her, and the rest of the herd vanished over the crest of the hill. Arthur approached the downed bison and dismounted, Charles doing the same.

"Nice job, Arthur!" Charles praised him. He sounded bright and wired and alive, the adrenaline of the hunt having the same affect on him as it did Arthur. "That was a clean shot."

"Well, I think she was already injured." Arthur pointed out. Charles nodded, but didn't seem deterred.

"It's good to go after the ones that are already sick or injured — less impact on the herd that way. You did good, Arthur." Charles unsheathed his knife, gesturing for Arthur to do the same. "I'll show you how we butcher them, too."

"Is it much different from the deer?" Arthur asked, coming to stand beside Charles at the bison's belly. 

"In a way. I was injured, so I couldn't show you how to skin the deer — It's just important to do it carefully. Every part of the bison can be used. The hide and the meat, obviously. But the horns, hooves, bones, tendons, even some of the organs. You can make fish hooks, sewing needles, clothing, yarn or thread, bowstring and fishing line, hammers, all kinds of things. Even the fat can be used to craft ammunition." Arthur let out a low whistle. 

"I had no idea you could make all of that from one animal... I've always just bought that stuff in a store." He cast an appraising glance at Charles, who had crouched down and was running a hand down the bison's furry flank. "And you know how to do all of that?" Charles glanced up at Arthur.

"Well...most of it. I can teach you what I know, if you'd like." And again, he wasn't insisting, just offering. Another piece of himself freely given, for Arthur to decide if he would accept or not.

"I'd like that. That's real kind of you, Charles." Charles beckoned, so Arthur crouched down as well. The bison was imposing even in death, her glazed over eyes staring through Arthur. He reached out, gently brushing her eye closed. A second brush of his hand over the crown of her skull, between her delicately curved horns. A sense of awe crept up his spine, taking residence in his lungs, leaving no room for air. He'd killed plenty before — humans, animals, the monsters that lurked somewhere in between. But the weight of a life ending had never settled on him quite like this. She was beautiful, powerful, and from her they would feed themselves, clothe themselves, even profit if they sold some of the goods she would yield. Arthur had never been religious, but for one delicate, green-and-gold moment out in the Heartlands, the thread that connected all living things was as clear to him as if he could see it — as intricately woven as a spider web, as strong as steel cables. Charles watched Arthur and said nothing, as if he understood exactly what was going on in Arthur's head. Arthur sighed, gently patting the crown of her majestic skull. _Thank you._ Charles raised his knife carefully, pressing the tip of the blade between her forelegs. 

"You ready, Arthur?" He asked. Arthur nodded, gesturing for him to start. Charles shifted his position, holding the knife with one hand and resting the other on her shoulder to steady himself. "You'll want to start with one long cut from the breast to the haunch." Charles told him. "And don't cut deep — you want the cuts to be as shallow as possible while still opening the hide." He dragged the knife down her belly in one slow, steady motion. A line of scarlet welled behind the blade like some kind of morbid magic trick. He finished the cut, pulling the knife away. "Then you want to make lateral cuts leading from the main cut —" Charles repositioned the knife near the juncture of her belly and her right foreleg, using one hand to hold her leg steady. He drew the knife from there to the base of her hoof in one slice. This cut was quicker, being on much thinner skin, but still the movement was almost surgical in its precision. "— All the way down the leg." Charles finished, and he released his grip her her hock. "You do the next leg." Arthur shuffled a bit, turning to look at Charles in consternation. 

"You sure? I don't want to ruin the hide." At his concern, Charles huffed. He sounded more amused than impatient, though.

"You didn't think you'd be any good with a bow, either. Come on; it's the best way to learn." At his reassurance, Arthur took a hold of her left foreleg, sprawled along the ground. This one would be a little bit easier with the ground to hold things steady, and Arthur wondered if Charles had done that on purpose. He brought his knife to her supple flesh, still warm. Carefully, doing his best to mimic the movements he had just watched Charles make, Arthur sliced his knife along the length of her leg, making his own slice. The skin parted easily and mostly cleanly, with only a small uneven bit near the swell of her knee. 

"See, Arthur? Not bad at all." Charles grinned at him, and Arthur chuckled. 

"Huh. I guess I have a good teacher." He replied. Arthur wished he had the balls to look at Charles when he said that to him. The two carried on this way, with Charles demonstrating each motion before Arthur tried it. Morning marched on into afternoon, and the sun continued its trek across the sky, spilling honeyed warmth over them as they worked. Both men were too focused on their task to make much in the way of conversation, but they worked together with the ease of old friends, barely needing words to be able to work together seamlessly. Once they had finally finished breaking the bison down, they wrapped the individual cuts of meat and muscle and fat and organs and bones and hooves and horns in waxed cloth, divvying the bundles between their two horses. The process was hard work — both men were sweating and bloodied by the time the last parcels had been tucked into saddlebags, and the hide draped over Hermes' haunches. All that remained of the bison was a bloodstained, flattened patch of grass, a skull and some offal left for the coyotes. It was a solemn sight, but the knowledge so little was going to waste sat like pride on their backs. Charles pulled a rag from his saddlebag, wetting it and wiping the blood off his forearms. He handed the rag to Arthur to do the same. Arthur took it gratefully, feeling like a sticky mess.

"Thank you, Charles. For everything — for teaching me all of this." Charles hummed in acknowledgment, peering at something in the distance. He had a confused frown on his face, pulling his eyebrows down, a small wrinkle forming between them. Arthur was overcome with the urge to smooth it out with his fingertips. Charles tore his gaze away from the horizon, glancing over at Arthur. 

"Thank you for coming with me. Bison isn't something to be done alone. It was nice, being able to do this with someone." Arthur nodded, and turned to look out in the direction Charles had been staring.

"Trouble?" Arthur asked, gesturing at the empty prairie. 

"No. I don't think so. I just thought I saw something..." He trailed off, still searching the horizon. "I'm gonna go check it out. You coming?" 

"Sure, lead the way." Arthur replied. They mounted up briskly and set off, Charles leading through the waving grass. He wasn't following any type of trail Arthur could see. "What was it you saw?" Arthur asked.

"Scavenger birds." Charles replied, and Arthur frowned. In their line of work, carrion birds were usually a bad sign. They rounded a hill, and a flurry of vultures startled at their arrival, taking off in a rustle of feathers. " _No!"_ Charles cried, anguished. With the birds out of the way, the carcasses of two bison were visible. It was clear their deaths had not been natural. They were half decomposed, with shotgun blast craters in their skulls and flanks, black with congealed blood and writhing with flies. The awful smell of rot hung in the air — Arthur felt a wave of nausea, his hangover reawakening with a vengeance. Charles stared down at the corpses, his face tight with rage and agony.

"Why would anyone do this?" Arthur asked, horrified. It was like staring at a twisted perversion of their own hunt, a reverent process turned on its head with sacrilege. Charles reined Taima away. 

"I'm not sure. But I'm going to find out."

"I'm with you." Arthur replied, turning Hermes away from the corpses as well. There wasn't much of a trail to follow, but the motion of ravens in the distance led them to the base of a rocky outcropping, jutting out of the grass. Two more dead bison lay beside it.

"These are fresher." Charles observed. His voice was clipped, clinical. Struggling to keep it together. Arthur could relate. He scanned the surrounding landscape, not wanting to look at the bison. He noticed the remnants of a small camp left at the top of the hill.

"There's a camp up there — I'm going to check it out." Charles was still staring at the bison. Arthur dismounted and made his way up the hill to the campsite. There wasn't much, just a ring of stones with smoldering logs and ash, at the center, with two scrapes in the dirt on either side of it, roughly bedroll-shaped. General camp detritus of empty cans and bottles was littered around the space, but not much. Arthur crouched beside the remains of the fire, holding the back of his hand just above it. They were warm, but nowhere near still hot. He stood, looking out past the camp — the rocky ledge it was situated on provided a vantage point over quite a bit of open range. Arthur sighed and turned back, making his way down to where he'd left his horse. Charles was still staring at the dead bison. Arthur cleared his throat as he swung up into the saddle. "Logs ain't gone cold yet. I'd say they've been gone 'bout half a day." Charles nodded, finally looking up.

"That's how long I'd say these bison have been here, too." In wordless agreement, the two set off again. "Let's get to higher ground, see if we can see anything." Charles led the way up the hill, both men searching the rolling hillside.

"You see anything?" Arthur asked once they crested the top of the ridge. Charles raised one hand, pointing.

"You see that smoke? I bet that's another campsite. Come on!" Taima leaped forward, setting off at a breakneck gallop. Arthur kicked Hermes into action, urging him to keep up.

"Hey, wait up!" He called, unsure if Charles could hear him over the rush of the wind and the thundering of their horses hooves. Charles brought Taima to a sudden halt, her hooves sliding on the grass like a ranch horse, and he gestured to something on the ground.

"Look Arthur — more dead bison. This must be them!" Charles's voice was clipped, barely containing his rage. These bison had been killed much more recently — the shotgun wounds were still bleeding sluggishly. Arthur turned back to Charles, nauseated. He'd seen enough gore today. Charles picked up the pace again, and Arthur followed. He had never seen Taima run so fast — she seemed as intent as her owner. "Bastards! Just killing for fun." He spat out, disgusted. 

"You think we can talk?" Arthur asked. Killing and outlawing went hand in hand, in his experience. 

"I don't kill for fun. I kill when I need to." Charles snapped, and Arthur remained silent. There was nothing to say to that. They came upon another small campsite, this one tucked between the hillside and a few boulders. It was clear this location had been chosen for concealment, not scouting. Arthur wondered what the quota was on killing bison for fun — maybe they'd run out of bullets. The two men sitting by the fire looked up as they dismounted. Charles's movements were rough, angry, and Arthur watched him, following his lead. Charles approached them, coming to stand directly across the fire from them. Arthur stayed a few paces back, keeping an eye on the scene before him. He could see Charles's rage, in his stance and in his features. His hands were clenched, but did not shake. _Good._ As furious as he was, he remained in control. Arthur kept one hand resting on his holster, ready to intervene. He had originally thought Charles was emotionless, and it had pleased him to learn he was wrong when he'd seen past the veil, so to speak. Breaking down his walls, earning laughter and quiet smiles from Charles, hard-won and cherished, was fast becoming a bright part of Arthur's days. They were kindred spirits, he thought — two men putting on a mask. It had never occurred to him what _else_ there was to Charles, what counterpoint to kindness and laughter lurked within. It felt like an obvious oversight now. It didn't bother Arthur, thought — quite the opposite. The emotion poured off of him like a tidal wave, fury and rage, all raw and heated and unleashed. Arthur was captivated. It was like watching a summer lightning storm, wrapped in the skin of a man. He couldn't look away. "Did you fools shoot those bison?" Charles asked, his voice rough.

"What's your problem?" One of the men — _poachers,_ Arthur realized, if the amount of fur they were wearing was anything to go by — asked derisively.

"I said, did you _fools_ shoot those bison?" Charles repeated. The poachers were still eyeing him contemptuously, and Arthur wrapped his fingers deliberately around the grip of his pistol. The poacher who had spoken rose to his feet. 

"Calm down, you black or red bastard, whatever the fuck you are." At that, the second poacher rose to his feet as well, eyes bouncing between Charles, Arthur, and the other poacher nervously. _Good. Cowards._ Arthur stared him down, rage of his own beginning to roil in his gut. These men were _cowards_ , hunting animals for a living. They hunted _men_ for a living, and these men had it coming.

" _Did you shoot them?"_ Charles snapped, losing patience. The mouthy poacher took an angry step forward.

"Yeah, we did. And we'll shoot you too if you don't _git!"_ He paused, and Charles said nothing. He'd gone still and quiet. Predatory. "What business is it of yours what we —" The silent poacher chose that moment to draw his weapon, and Arthur did the same. But Charles was faster. He blew a hole in the poacher's chest with his sawed-off. The wound was a grisly copy of the ones left on the dead bison — a sick kind of irony. 

_"It's that business of mine!"_ Charles snarled, furious. There was a spray of blood on the side of his face from the poacher he had just shot. The remaining poacher fell backwards onto the ground, cowering pathetically.

" _Good god,_ you're crazy!" He turned to Arthur, pleading. "Look, I've got a family... a _family._ Don't shoot me." Arthur stepped towards the man, towering over him. 

"Stand back, Charles. I'll get you some answers." He growled. This wasn't his fight, but the rage burned in him all the same. He thought of the gorgeous beasts thundering through the grass, the majestic grace with which they moved. He thought of the awe and care Charles had regarded their kill with. He thought of Charles telling him about the bison; the way his voice had been filled with reverence as he had told Arthur how important the bison were to his tribe. _The greatest of gifts._ Arthur grabbed the poacher by the throat, straddling him to pin him to the ground. The man's pulse thundered under Arthur's fingertips, jackrabbit quick. 

"What the hell are you doing?" The man yelped as Arthur pressed him into the dirt. The acrid smell of urine told Arthur just how terrified the poacher was, and it gave him a grim sort of satisfaction. _Not so tough now, ain't ya._ Arthur thought. He struck the poacher across the face with his free hand.

"Why are you killing those bison and leaving them to rot?" He snarled, leaning down in the man's face.

"I don't know what you're talking about!" The man grit out. Arthur punched him in the nose, _hard._ Blood sprayed from his nose, giving Arthur a blood spatter across his face to match Charles. He continued punching the man, alternating sides of his jaw so he wouldn't lose consciousness just yet.

"Goddamn it, tell us or you're dead." Arthur snarled. More punches, more blood, more piteous whimpers.

"Alright, alright! We was paid, alright? To make it look like it was Indians." The man gasped out, blood drooling from his mouth. Arthur hit him again.

"By who?" Arthur growled.

"I don't know! That's all I know, I swear!"

"Just kill him Arthur." Charles growled out. The man's eyes widened, gasping for breath desperately around his broken nose.

"No! Please! Don't kill me, I'm begging you!" He begged, struggling for air. Arthur tightened his grip on the man's windpipe. The man gasped, kicking desperately, and Arthur tossed him to the ground, taking a step back and drawing his pistol. Before the man could say anything further, Arthur put a bullet between his eyes. Sighing, Arthur turned away from the body, grabbing a rag sitting on a crate nearby and using it to wipe the blood off of his face. He turned back to Charles, to see the other man eyeing him, wide-eyed. Charles's hands were shaking. Slowly, carefully, Arthur approached. Moving deliberately, as to give Charles ample opportunity to stop him, Arthur reached out, gently wiping the blood off of Charles's face. It was tacky, half dried, and wouldn't disappear with a gentle hand. Arthur stepped closer, resting one hand on the juncture of Charles's neck and shoulder, holding steady as he scrubbed the gore off. At the first touch of the rag, Charles had relaxed slightly, closing his eyes and allowing Arthur to work, accepting the touch and sighing heavily. The show of trust had something aching in Arthur's chest, try as he might to ignore it. Task completed, Arthur went to take a step back and give Charles his space, but Charles reached up, lightning quick. His hands were no longer shaking. He gripped Arthur's wrist, keeping him anchored to the spot. Charles opened his eyes, gazing at Arthur steadily.

"Thank you, Arthur." Charles said. Arthur could feel the timbre of Charles's voice beneath his palm. "For coming with me." His voice shuddered at the end, just slightly.

"'Course, Charles." Arthur replied. "I'm with you." And he nodded as he said it, sure of that as he was of anything. There'd never been any question of if he'd follow Charles. Charles nodded too, a barely noticeable tilt of his head. If Arthur wasn't standing so close, he wasn't sure if he would have even noticed it.

"I'm sorry... for what I said before. I was not implying —" He sucked in a breath sharply. "That you kill for fun. You're nothing like most of the outlaws I know. I was just... angry. And taking it out on you. I'm sorry." Arthur shook his head emphatically.

"Nah, I know, Charles. You was angry, like you said. And rightfully so. You had just got through telling me how important the bison are, and these two bastards..." Arthur trailed off, unable to articulate what he thought of the two men. "I don't understand why someone would pay them to do that, though." Charles broke eye contact then, staring off at the horizon. Still, he clung to Arthur's wrist, keeping him in place. Arthur was hyperaware of Charles's pulse thudding under his hand, so steady and vital and _alive._

"It ain't that uncommon. Could be the military, or some politician. They get some photos of dead bison, pin it on Indians, and suddenly watching them get driven off their land ain't so unsettling to average folk. And if that land is of some strategic use to the U.S. government, well." Charles smiled bitterly. "All the better, right?"

"I had no idea. That's..." Arthur trailed off, knowing nothing he said would be of any comfort, but wanting to say something all the same. "I'm sorry, Charles. I hope you know I appreciate you teachin' me. Sharin' this with me, when I got no claim to it." Charles looked back at him.

"You're my friend." He said it simply, as if that were explanation enough. As if _friend_ were something rare and coveted and hard-won — Maybe, for Charles, it was. As if _friend_ explained why he didn't do this with anyone else in the gang. Maybe it did. But it sure felt like a goddamn mystery to Arthur, standing there with a hand clasped tightly over Charles's clavicle, with the bodies of the poachers they had killed together a stones throw away. And then Charles pinned him with this _look_ , and Arthur wondered if this was how prey felt in the last moments of their life, before an arrow pierced their eye socket, sending them into an endless sleep. For one brief, endless, earth-shattering moment, Arthur felt certain Charles was going to kiss him. But then Charles squeezed his wrist and stepped back, releasing him. "Come on, we should get the meat back to camp." The two of them made quick work of stripping the camp, taking any valuables or supplies they found, but Arthur barely even noticed, too busy ruminating on that certainty. They rode home, side by side, and Arthur was still thinking about it; The look on Charles's face, the warmth of him under Arthur's palm and wrapped around his wrist. It wasn't until later, with evening falling over the Heartlands, riding out again because Dutch and Strauss had hounded him to check up on some debtors, that he allowed himself to admit in the privacy of his own head how badly he wished Charles would have kissed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 👀 this was a very fun chapter to write, and it is So Important to the charthur canon so please let me know how I did! as always thanks for reading i love u all so much :)


	10. Horseshoe Overlook VI: Brotherhood, In All It's Glorious Forms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy holidays everyone! Sorry for the long wait — between the holidays, some things in my personal life, and the insanity going on here in the US, I haven't been writing as much. But I hope the length of this chapter makes up for the wait a bit, and fingers crossed I'll be back to my regular schedule soon. As always thank you for the comments and kudos and bookmarks, all of you support means so much to me <3 enjoy!!

_May 28, 1899_

Morning at Horseshoe Overlook dawned grey and misty. Charles sat on the log by the campfire, stew bowl balanced on one knee, and a bison horn on the other, carving knife in hand. Leftover stew and a project for breakfast. He hadn't fully decided what he wanted to carve just yet, so he was whittling away at the horn, waiting to see what shapes would reveal themselves. John sat across from him on one of the crate seats, half-heartedly picking at his own stew while staring into the fire. The camp was quiet this morning, muted under a layer of fog. No one else was around just yet, either still asleep or out of camp. Arthur, in particular, Charles hadn't seen in a few days — since the evening they had returned to camp after their hunting trip. They'd ridden into camp, ready to start the long process of cleaning the hide from the bison. Dutch had headed them off, getting after Arthur for _avoiding Strauss,_ whatever that meant. Arthur hadn't offered any explanation and Charles hadn't asked. He'd just said he'd likely be gone a few days, as he had a few errands to run besides the ones for Strauss. That had been that. He'd ridden out after a terse conversation with the German man on the edge of the camp, a list in hand. Whatever the task at hand was, it was clear he didn't want it, and Charles half wanted to ask Dutch why Arthur had to be the one to do it. He was no fool, however, and he had held his tongue. In the meantime, Charles had begun the delicate process of cleaning the hide, salting and smoking the meat, and boiling everything else on his own. Three days gone by and he was mostly done with the whole process — the only thing left to do was decide what to carve the bones and stitch the hide into. Despite Arthur's warning that he wouldn't be back for a while, his absence still weighed on Charles while he worked. He was disappointed he hadn't gotten the chance to teach Arthur this part of the process as well, and frustrated with himself for stepping away from Arthur out on the plains. The way Arthur had been looking at him, Charles was almost certain if he hadn't backed away, he would have kissed him. And that was what he wanted, so he didn't know why he balked, why he ruined the moment before he could see it to fruition. He wasn't used to _attachments;_ joining the gang had been daunting and unfamiliar enough on its own, all these people who knew who he was and lived in close quarters with him. But now Arthur was settling into the gaps of his long silent heart, taking up space and making himself at home. He enjoyed talking to him and slowly but surely learning more about him; earning his trust and his laughter and his eye-crinkling grins. He enjoyed riding out with him, falling into a synchronized rhythm on the road. He missed him when he was gone, and he was reminded of him in almost everything. It was terrifying, and it was effortless. Charles didn't know how to do anything but rebel against it. In some kind of bargain with himself, Charles decided whatever he carved this horn into would find it's way into Arthur's possession, along with some extra bowstrings he had made with the bison tendons. He was still at a loss of how to proceed now that he'd squandered his opportunity, but gifts seemed like a sure way to show his affection, surely.

Not that Arthur ever reacted how he expected.

"How is it still cold? It's almost June." John grumbled, looking up from the fire to glare at the misty sky, pulling Charles from his reverie. He hummed noncommittally, not looking up from his carving. He'd found John was easy enough to be around, as long as he didn't take him too seriously. The sound of two sets of hoofbeats coming into camp had John and Charles looking over in unison. Arthur was at the hitching post, dismounting an unfamiliar dapple grey mare, with Hermes trailing behind her. He wrapped her reins over the hitching post and trudged across camp, heading for his tent. He looked like hell, all muddy and damp. There was a bruise blooming along his left cheekbone, and there was blood on his knuckles. Arthur's steps dragged with exhaustion, and Charles suspected he hadn't slept much, if at all, since he'd left camp. He felt a surge of irritation at Dutch and at Strauss, for sending Arthur out to do whatever it was that had Arthur looking so weary, and at Arthur for refusing to take care of himself. He wasn't sure how, but Charles decided he would get Arthur out of it.

"Hey, Arthur!" John called. "Where'd you get the new horse?" Arthur had reached his tent, and was in the process of shucking off his wet clothes. He glanced over at John. 

"Took her off a bounty." Arthur grunted. He was now down to his union suit, and Charles turned back to his carving to give him some semblance of privacy. John had a shit-eating grin on his face, and didn't seem to have the same compunctions as Charles.

"What's her name?" He asked Arthur. Charles heard the _slam_ of Arthur's trunk, followed by the rustle of fabric as he dressed. 

"Atropos." Came Arthur's reply. John rolled his eyes and turned to Charles.

"Y'know, Charles, he's always been real bad about bringing home strays, and givin' 'em names no one else understands." John told him. A snort sounded from behind Charles. 

"Maybe if you ever read half those books Dutch and Hosea was so kind to teach you how to read, you'd understand more, Marston." Charles couldn't quite keep a straight face at that — he chuckled. John shot him a betrayed look. "We was brought up the same damn way. You was just spoiled and got out of having to read, just like everything else." Arthur goaded.

"I can read just fine!" John shot back, losing his cool. "I just live in the real world, not with my head in a damn book all the time!" Arthur didn't reply, and Charles glanced back over his shoulder to see he had pulled on clean clothes and was sitting on his cot, staring warily at something in his hands. Charles realized it was a letter. He turned away again, once again giving Arthur his privacy. John was stewing, looking ready to snap something else out since he didn't get a response. As a rule, Charles didn't believe in inserting himself into family matters, but he would make an exception, just this once.

"I'm pretty sure Atropos is Greek, John." John grumbled irritably and took a bite of his stew in lieu of responding. Charles wondered who was sending Arthur letters, before promptly reminding himself it was none of his business.

"Fuck, this is nasty. I can't believe I'm eating this." John complained, earning a glance from Charles. 

"Don't complain. We're lucky we have food." Charles told him. John laughed.

"Okay, you try it then!" Patiently, Charles set down his carving and picked up the stew bowl. He spooned up a mouthful, chewed, and swallowed, staring at John as he did so.

"You're right. This is disgusting." Charles deadpanned. John burst out laughing, and both men set their bowls aside. Charles rummaged around in his satchel, and pulled out some of the bison meat he had smoked. He tossed a strip to John. "Here — this won't poison you." Charles could understand, now, what Arthur meant about John being spoiled — there was just something about him that seemed so... _helpless,_ in a way that Charles just instinctively looked out for him. He wondered if Dutch and Hosea did the same. He wondered if _Arthur_ did the same. _Weaponized stupidity,_ Charles thought. He turned to offer Arthur some of the bison jerky as well, only to see him frozen in place, staring at the letter in his hands. He had never seen Arthur look so anguished before. He turned back to John, hoping he would have some insight. John, chewing the jerky, was also staring thoughtfully at Arthur, so clearly he had noticed his abstraction as well. He looked at Charles and shrugged. Strauss and Susan chose that moment to emerge from their tent — Susan took a seat at the fire with Charles and John, coffee in hand, while Strauss approached Arthur's tent. Charles picked his carving back up.

"Mister Morgan!" Strauss called. No response. "Mister Morgan, can I — are you okay?" Strauss seemed to catch on to Arthur's mood as well.

"Yes — I was miles away, I'm afraid." Arthur replied. 

"So it seems." Strauss said. "Anyway, it's that fellow, Downes." Footsteps, as Arthur and Strauss walked away. Charles could just see them in his periphery, walking past Dutch's tent.

"The, uh... the do-gooder?" Arthur asked.

"Exactly. We lent him quite a sum... it seems he has little intention of repaying us. He was quite ridiculous when I went to see him. You've not been to see him yet, I take it?"

"I-I'm sorry, Herr Strauss... had a lot on. I'll go give him a gentle reminder." Arthur replied wearily. _Usury?_ The puzzle pieces clicked together very quickly — what job _Strauss_ was sending Arthur on, why Dutch was so adamant on it getting done, and why Arthur detested the work. Nausea curled in Charles's gut.

"Not so gentle." Strauss cautioned. "I don't like his kind — superior."

"As you wish." Arthur sighed. Arthur's footsteps receded, and Charles glanced up to see him back at the hitching post, mounting Atropos and sending her down the trail at a brisk trot. He schooled his expression carefully, not wanting to give away the disgust he felt. Not with Arthur. Of course they chose the man too kind to say no to do their filthy work. Charles's motions with his knife became quick, clipped, and he took a breath, forcing his hands to steady. Susan was eyeing John over her coffee mug, a glint in her eye like she was waiting for him to tell her something. He didn't look up from the fire, and Charles was certain that was by design.

"Miss Grimshaw." Charles greeted her politely.

"Mister Smith." She replied sweetly. She turned back to John. " _Some_ folk around here have manners! Some would think you were raised by wolves!"

"Very funny." John deadpanned. Charles sliced a strip of the horn away, leaving a distinctly humped shape behind. Inspiration struck, and Charles kept carving, pleased with how his little project was coming along.

"So, what was the letter Arthur got, do you think? Seemed like bad news." Charles asked, aiming to sound casual. John just shrugged.

"Your guess is as good as mine. I haven't seen him get a letter in years." Charles said nothing, letting that lie. Susan sipped her coffee noisily. John glared at her in accusation. "You're awful quiet, Miss Grimshaw. Ain't like you." Susan shrugged.

"I ain't one for gossip. It's unseemly." She answered primly.

"Bullshit!" John laughed. "You're in everybody's business, and you always have been." Susan stared John down across the fire, and Charles half expected her to get up and smack him.

"According to the very friendly postmaster in Valentine, the letter I picked up, addressed to a _Tacitus A.M. Kilgore,_ was posted by a Mrs. Mary Linton." The way she said the name implied... _something,_ Charles was sure, but he didn’t recognize the name. Clearly John _did,_ however, because he gaped in shock, and he smacked his hand against the side of the crate he was sitting on.

"What the _hell_ is she doing all the way down here?" John asked.

"I don't know, John, I didn't _ask."_ Susan snipped.

"Quit bickering, the both of you. You're gonna frighten Mister Smith here away." That was Hosea, cutting in on John and Susan's gossip, coming up to take a seat beside Charles. He clapped a hand on Charles's shoulder as he sat down, using Charles to leverage himself onto his seat.

"I'm afraid I don't scare quite that easy." Charles told him. Hosea laughed, breaking off in a wheezing cough.

"Hosea — what is Mary Linton doing writing Arthur letters?" John asked. His tone was wheedling, and he looked much younger than he was in that moment.

"I don't know, John — why don't you ask him yourself, if you're so worried about it?" Hosea challenged. John leaned back on his makeshift seat.

"Because I'm not insane?" He replied, as if that were the obvious answer. Hosea turned to eye Susan coolly. 

"Don't you go puttin' ideas in this boy's head, Susan." She stood and rolled her eyes theatrically at Hosea.

"I was just worrying about that _other_ boy of ours, Hosea. And I know you do too, so don't give me any shit." 

"Sure, but he ain't a kid anymore. I'm sure if he wanted our input, he would ask." Hosea chuckled. Susan stalked away, muttering _I_ _'ll give that woman some God damned input_ as she went.

"What have you got on today, Charles?" Hosea asked. Charles shrugged. 

"Not much. I'm just about finished with the bison Arthur and I brought in." He held up the horn in his hands. "Just working on this, I suppose."

"Perfect!" Hosea replied, rising to his feet. "I want you two to come fishing with me today."

"I'm not much of a fisherman." Charles warned.

"Oh, that's fine by me. You keep this old man some company, I'll teach you some tricks. I managed to teach Arthur and John, just about." He replied. Charles shrugged again, also rising off of the log.

"Alright." Hosea shot John a look, urging him to his feet as well.

"You didn't ask me if I was busy today, Hosea." John pointed out as the three of them headed for the hitching posts. Hosea laughed.

"That's because I already knew you weren't!" John shot a dirty look at the back of Hosea's head. Hermes was still tacked up, waiting forlornly for his owner to return. John and Hosea gathered their horses, but Charles paused, giving Hermes a quick once over with the brush, checking his hooves and loosening his cinch. He slipped the bit from the gelding's mouth and offered him a peppermint. He knotted the reins so they wouldn't trail and sent the gelding ambling towards the rest of the herd with a pat on the rump. Taima had made her way over when she saw Charles doling treats and attention out to another horse, so Charles made quick work of tacking her up, not wanting to keep Hosea waiting. Hosea didn't seem put out by it, though. Quite the opposite, in fact — he was watching Charles fondly when he mounted up.

"It's not like Arthur to ride out without seeing to his horse first." Hosea commented. John led the way on Old Boy, and Hosea followed, leaving Charles to bring up the rear.

"He seemed like he had a lot on his mind." Charles replied simply. They emerged from the woods obscuring Horseshoe Overlook and John turned to follow the road downhill, towards the river. Hosea and Charles followed.

"I was thinking we'd head down to Bard's Crossing, at the mouth of the Dakota, where it joins Flat Iron. Some great trout and bass there, if we're lucky." Hosea explained as they followed the road down the slope. In the distance, Bard's Crossing rose out of the mist like some kind of mechanical skeleton, a stark contrast to Flat Iron Lake's gleaming surface just below. The morning was still quite dreary, but a breeze had picked up, and the sun was struggling to shine through the clouds. It was sure to be clear by midday. Old Boy tossed his head as they went, dancing anxiously and mouthing at his bit.

"You havin' trouble with that horse, John?" Hosea asked, and John's shoulders went real tight at that, and although Charles could only see the back of John's head, it was clear Hosea had touched a nerve.

"He's fine. Just ain't ridden out much since we got down here." John replied tersely.

"Well, why don't you give him his head?" Hosea suggested. "Head down to the river, pick a spot for us. You know what to look for." John shrugged, clapping his heels to Old Boy's flanks and sending him surging forward. Once John was out of earshot, Hosea dropped Silver Dollar back to fall in alongside Taima — the road was wide enough to ride side by side here. "I saw you boys got on just fine with that bison hunt the other day." Hosea began. He sounded conversational enough, but Charles felt like he was walking into an ambush.

"We did." Charles replied cautiously.

"Hope he didn't slow you down too much, Charles." Hosea jested.

"Actually, Arthur did well — he was the one who took the bison down. It was a good, clean shot, too. And he claimed he was no hunter." Charles told him, wondering why everyone seemed to think hunting was a skill hopelessly beyond Arthur. He'd proven to be nothing but skilled on the two outings Charles had gone hunting with him on. Hosea actually threw his head back and _laughed_ at that, long and loud. Charles tried to convince himself he wasn't the one being laughed at.

"Arthur Morgan? Tall, blue eyed, kind of grumpy?" Hosea asked through tears. "Are you sure you have the right Arthur?" Hosea asked, still chortling.

"Fairly sure." Charles replied drily. After a moment's consideration, he continued. "He seemed as surprised as you are when he brought the bison down. I take it there's a story to that?"

" _A_ story? No, Charles, try _stories_." Hosea corrected him, shaking his head fondly. "That boy has been with Dutch and I for a long time, and I can't even tell you how many fishing and hunting trips I 've taken him on. Especially when he was young — what did we know about raising a teenager? I was just trying to keep him busy, give him some kind of skillset that didn't involve outlawing..." Hosea trailed off thoughtfully, lost in decades of memories. He shook his head slightly, as if rousing himself. "I don't think much of anything ever stuck. I can't even tell you how many buckshot filled rabbits we've had to struggle through." Charles chuckled at that image.

"I'd love to hear some of those stories sometime, Hosea."

"Oh, assuredly you will. I'll wait until Arthur's here to hear it, too, though — no point in embarrassing childhood stories if he ain't here to be embarrassed by it, right?" And Hosea _winked_ at him, like they had just gone in as partners on a con. Charles nodded in tacit agreement.

"Well, I suppose it's not so embarrassing now, if some of those lessons are finally sinking in." Charles laughed. Hosea turned to stare at Charles shrewdly, Silver Dollar more than competent enough to continue her steady jog straight down the road without much steering.

"I think he just found a good enough reason to pay attention, this time around." Hosea said slyly. Charles kept his eyes down, suddenly very focused on straightening a stray clump of Taima's mane. Sensing he wasn't going to get a response, Hosea got more to the point. "That woman John and Susan were talking about — Mary Linton. That name mean anything to you?" He asked.

"No, I don't recall hearing it before." Charles replied, wondering where this was headed. Hosea nodded, seeming unsurprised.

"Now I ain't tellin' you this for the sake of idle gossip, but I figure if Mary's in town, the girls will hear about it soon enough, and then everyone will. You might as well hear the truth — Lord knows Arthur ain't forthcoming." Hosea sighed, like this was a point of contention between the two of them. "We picked John up in Chicago, late in '85. Big cities normally aren't our thing, as you know, but we had good work there — stuck around for a while. Not too long after that, Arthur met Mary Linton. Well, Mary Gillis, at the time." Charles nodded to show he was listening, not entirely sure he wanted to hear the rest. It didn't sound like a happy story. "Her parents were well-to-do folks in the city, Arthur had two outlaw fathers. Can you imagine that?" Hosea chuckled. "To make a long story short, they got engaged quickly. Arthur always had a real big heart, try as he might to hide it. But he had no interest in becoming a socialite, and she had no interest in becoming a gunslinger's wife. We robbed a big bank in Chicago, and we had to run. Before we could leave the city, she ended their engagement. As soon as we got far enough out west to stop running, she'd written him, telling him she was getting married to someone else, and not to write her anymore." Charles found some things about Arthur he hadn't understood before explained by this, and he nodded thoughtfully, as grateful for the insight as he was confused by it. "And now she's in Valentine, and contacting him again." Hosea finished.

"Why are you telling me this?" Charles asked. Hosea just kept looking at him, as if he was trying to decide how much he could say to Charles. It was a considering look.

"Arthur may not share my blood, but he is my son." Hosea began. "Sometimes... fathers help their sons in the right direction." Charles said nothing, waiting for Hosea to elaborate. He felt dangerously exposed, and Hosea chuckled at him. Charles envied John, suddenly, for getting to run on ahead. He wondered if it would offend Hosea if he did the same. "I know you're smarter than that, Charles — I may be old, but I am neither stupid nor blind."

"Uh-huh."

"So consider this my blessing." Hosea said, simply. Charles turned to glance at him in surprise, going stiff with embarrassmentat being seen right through. Hosea reached out, giving Charles a gentle pat on the shoulder across the distance between their horses. "God knows you'll need it to get through to that fool." And that got Charles to laugh, hard, embarrassment giving way to a feeling of warmth in the pit of his chest. Hosea continued on, saving Charles from having to come up with a response. "Now come on — let's catch up to John before he falls in the river waiting for us." Silver Dollar leapt forward, shifting into a gallop in the blink of an eye, and Charles followed suit on Taima. The soft smile didn't leave his face the entire ride to the Dakota.

//

Blood spattered over Arthur's knuckles and face like a constellation, hot and metallic, with the taste of iron and illness filling his mouth. He spat the other man's blood into the dirt of his homestead and swung into the saddle, fleeing like a bandit. He kept Atropos at a gallop until they reached the banks of the Dakota, leaving Downes Ranch far behind. The sturdy grey mare slowed of her own accord at the riverbank, sensing her rider's distraction, and lowered her head to lap at the flowing water. Her dapples gleamed like dollar coins in the morning sunlight — the fog from earlier in the day had burned off, leaving blue skies and warm sunlight. It was a beautiful day, but Arthur couldn't feel it. He climbed out of the saddle like a sleepwalker, stiff and mechanical. He dropped to his knees at the riverbank, using the cool water to wash his arms clean of blood, rinsing the taste of it out of his mouth. Arthur stared down at his reflection in the water, still struggling to catch his breath far more than the short ride to the river warranted. Shame roiled in his gut. It would be easy to curse Strauss for taking on debtors, and it would be easy to curse Dutch for letting him do it in the gang's name. It was damn easy to curse the debtor's themselves, for taking money they couldn't pay back. But at the end of the day, it didn't matter how he felt about it, he supposed. Strauss would still loan the money, and the poor and the desperate would still take the awful terms, and if Arthur didn't collect then someone more brutal and malicious would. If he privately hated Downes for being a better man than him, so be it. Such was the way of the world. Arthur was still the one with blood on his hands, knuckles bruised and split. It was his visage the debtors feared and hated in equal measure — arriving like the Devil himself to castigate them for their sins. Arthur thought of himself as a boy, cold and scared and starving during his first brutal Nevada winter on his own. He wondered if Dutch had met Strauss first, if maybe _he_ would have found himself on the wrong end of a debt. Arthur wondered if he would have taken Strauss's terms, as desperate as he'd been as a child, newly on his own. _That Downes boy couldn't be a day over_ _eighteen_. But he would be lying if he said he hadn't detested Downes, personally, too; maybe as much as Strauss. The pitiful little man had stoked his ire from the first time Arthur had laid eyes on him in Valentine. Maybe it was because seeing the man, sick and weak and destitute, still begging for help not for himself but for others, was a visceral reminder of why the whole business felt so sordid. It reminded Arthur of the first time he had ever robbed a bank, all of twenty three years old, bracketed between Dutch and Hosea. The take had been more money than he'd ever seen in his life, yet they had given the majority of it away to the poor and destitute. To the orphanage John had run away from just months before. To the vagrants living in shanties outside of the city. And here he was all these years later, loaning money to the desperate, and beating them when they couldn't pay. Another reminder that he was damned, broken and bound for hell. He wondered when the gang's philosophy had altered so radically. Dangerous thoughts ran through his head, making him dizzy and making his head ache. Nausea gripped his stomach, and Arthur turned away from the river, emptying the contents of his stomach into the mud. Atropos snorted and lipped at his hair delicately as Arthur heaved for breath. He reached up to pat her cheek gently. 

"It's alright, girl." Arthur crooned softly to her. When he'd gone after that god forsaken snake oil salesman in the wee hours of the morning and seen the big, solid mare at his campsite, it had felt like some kind of fate, earning her a new name and a new rider. She was steady, and as far as he could tell damn near bombproof — training her to his preferences would be a breeze. Arthur sighed tiredly, leaning back over the river and taking gulping mouthfuls of the cold water. He rose to his feet stiffly, rifling through his saddlebags for a sprig of mint. He popped it into his mouth, chewing it into a paste before spitting it back out into the mud. He crouched to take one final drink and refill his canteen. Passably presentable, Arthur swung up into the saddle, sending Atropos splashing across the river, headed for Valentine. 

The livestock town looked nearly the same as it had when he'd arrived with Uncle, Karen, Mary-Beth and Tilly. Still all mud and morons, as Hosea had said so succinctly. He rode up the main drag carefully, making sure not to sideswipe any pedestrians in the crowded road. _Not exactly the same,_ Arthur noted when he passed the saloon, seeing the front windows still shattered and patched haphazardly with wood, awaiting proper repairs. He hitched up at the general store, making his way inside. Most of his clothing had been lost in the fire up in Kansas the previous year, and much of what he'd managed to replace had been lost when fleeing Blackwater. Down to the bare essentials clothing-wise, Arthur almost managed to convince himself it was necessity sending him after new clothes, not the letter he had received earlier that morning. He left the general store with a parcel of new clothes far nicer than anything he currently owned while still being practical, and headed next door. He did his best to ignore the hostile looks thrown his way as he made his way to the back, dropping himself into the barber's chair. Clean shaven and hair trimmed, Arthur stopped at the bar, coming to rest his forearms on the perpetually damp and sticky surface. The bartender clearly recognized him, and held his hands up pleadingly. 

"No more trouble outta you, please!" He cajoled.

"Yeah, yeah, I hear you. No trouble." Arthur sighed. He tossed a dollar onto the bar. "I'll take a whiskey. Have yourself one too. On me." The bartender grabbed a bottle and two glasses, pouring the shots eagerly.

"Thanks, mister!" Arthur downed his shot in one go, offering the bartender a halfhearted salute as he made his exit. He crossed the road quickly, making his way over to the hotel, the call of his current errand pushing him on. As he stepped into the relatively dim hotel foyer, the owner opened his mouth to say something, and Arthur cut him off, in no mood for pleasantries. 

"I ain't here to cause any trouble. Can I get a bath?" The hotel owner's mustache twitched, and there was a flurry of movement down the hall. 

"The girls are getting that ready for you right now, sir." Arthur nodded and made his way down the hall just as a bath maid ducked out of the door at the far end. 

"Bath's all ready for you, mister!" The girl told him, wringing her hands on her dress.

"Thank you, miss. Appreciate it." Arthur thanked her, but she didn't immediately step out of his way.

"Do you need any...help?" She asked suggestively. And Christ, she was so _young._ There was no way she was anywhere near twenty yet, and Arthur felt a surge of rage at the man sitting at the counter, for hiring her on so young. At the countless other men who came through who probably took her up on the offer, and at the world for being so goddamn cruel that she had to do the work in the first place. He pulled a quarter from his satchel quickly, before the girl could question his hesitation, and pressed it into her palm.

"Not at all, but thank you anyway." He told her. The girl nodded jerkily, spots of color appearing high on her cheeks. Her eyes were bright, and she gripped his hand before he could withdraw.

" _Thank you,_ mister. _Really."_ Arthur waved her off, stepping into the bath room and locking the door behind him. He went through the motions of undressing mechanically, letting out a weary sigh as he settled into the steaming water. Archie Downes had looked at him like the incarnation of evil mere hours before, and then that girl had stared at him like Lazarus laying eyes on Jesus himself. _What kind of a man_ are _you, Arthur Morgan?_ Some voice whispered deep inside him, neither malicious nor compassionate. Arthur dunked his head under the water, scrubbing himself clean of the days sins, wondering if a soul could wash clean so easily.

//

Chadwick Farm lay just north of Valentine, a stones throw up the road. It was a humble little farm, no more than a house and a shed and a handful of sheep penned in by ramshackle fencing. Arthur hitched Atropos by the pasture fence, carefully looping her reins over the rail while the curious sheep looked on. He was aware he was stalling, finding every reason under the sun to delay this. _Quit being a damn coward,_ Arthur berated himself. After a final pat to his mare's shoulder, Arthur turned and strode across the yard, feeling not-quite-himself in his new clothes, not yet worn in to feel like his own. The weathered porch steps creaked under his new boots. He rapped his knuckles on the old wooden door and took a step back, pulling his hat from his head and holding it in front of his chest like a shield. The door creaked as it opened, revealing a woman as weather-beaten as the farmhouse, levelling a Cattleman at him. Arthur raised his hands soothingly, keeping his hat in his left. 

"I-I'm sorry, I didn't mean to disturb you, ma'am." The woman said nothing, staring him down through the sights of the revolver. "Is, erm—" He cleared his throat, the name still bitter all these years later. "Is Mrs. Linton in?" He asked. The woman narrowed her eyes suspiciously at him. 

"I'll go see." She replied. The gun remained trained on him until the door closed. Arthur heard a quiet call of _Mrs. Linton, a caller for you_ from inside the house, and he sighed, toying nervously with his hat in his hands. He suddenly wondered what kind of _bad luck_ Mary had been involved in, to bring her all the way down to Valentine from Chicago, and to be staying in the spare room of an old farm instead of at the hotel. He had been so preoccupied with the fact she had written to him at all, the novelty of reading her handwriting and feeling the jagged thud of his heart in his breast, that he hadn't even considered the _why._ That felt like a mistake now, but one that was too late to rectify. And he couldn't quite quell the faint hope blooming in his chest at the prospect of seeing her again. The door opened quickly, and Mary stepped out to greet him. Age had touched her little in the decade and change gone by. Her dark hair was plaited back from her face, a soft fringe of bangs framing her face delicately. Her dark eyes were still wide and doe-like, and she still moved with quiet grace. She still had the birthmark on her cheek that Arthur remembered pressing tender kisses to. Her lips were still full and her cheekbones were still high and angular, and she was still Mary. She was still Mary in all the ways she had been his Mary, and Arthur suddenly, inexplicably, found himself wanting to run. He wanted to mount his horse and ride as fast and as far as he could, and for the life of him he couldn't say why. The only real difference he found as he searched her painfully familiar face was the sadness in her eyes, the lines on her face that belied too many years of too much pain. She wore pearl earrings and a ruby broach at her throat. Her dress was forest green and buttoned to her chin, long sleeved and ruffled lace bodice. Mary stared at Arthur for a moment, searching his face just as desperately. He remained rooted to the spot, waiting for Mary to speak. The last time he had seen her, she had told him she couldn't marry him. Wouldn't marry him. Not a month after, she had written him to inform him she was marrying another man. Over a decade ago, now, and he hadn't heard from her since. _Surely,_ Arthur thought, _she didn't call me here to reopen old wounds._ _Surely she wasn't that cruel._

"Hello, Arthur."Mary greeted him finally, breaking the endless moment. She closed the door behind her and stepped closer. 

"Mary." Arthur replied.

"I, erm..." She began, seeming as lost as Arthur felt, for once. "I heard you and your friends was around, I..."

"Okay." Arthur cut him, bristling just slightly at the word _friends._ Mary, of all people, knew the gang was his family. He did not want to let her fumble through her words about his _friends_ and lose his temper. "Where's what's-his-name?" He asked, trading his own barb back at her. As if he could ever forget the name _Barry Linton._ He was no more willing to say _husband_ than she had been to say _gang._ And her face drew up real tight, as she broke eye contact to stare at the old floorboards of the porch like she had hoped he wouldn't ask.

"Died." Mary answered. Her voice was soft and sad, but that one word hit Arthur like she had struck him.

"Well. I'm sorry to hear that." Arthur replied stiffly. For God's sake, it had been eleven years, but he was no more equipped for this conversation than he had been for their last one. 

"Yeah, me too." She flexed her jaw, the way she did when she was working up to say something. "Happened a while ago... pneumonia." She explained. Arthur cleared his throat.

"Bad business."

"Sure." Mary agreed. She remained quiet now, waiting for Arthur to say something. He took a breath through clenched teeth, willing his temper down. 

"So, uh... well, y-you've been made a widow and you come here looking for me, is that it?" There was a time he would have been happy — years ago, he had wished desperately for this very thing to happen. Despite the confusing tangle of emotions, Arthur found he did not want this, and the urge to flee came over him again. Mary flinched, wounded by the accusation. 

"No! It ain't like that, Arthur." She insisted. He settled his hat back on his head, feeling too exposed. Mary didn't expect niceties of him, anyway. As much as the idea of being a consolation prize had angered him, as much as he did not want to welcome her back with open arms, the look on her face, the way she jumped to say _ain't like that_ still stung. Cut him right down to the quick, as she always could.

"Oh, okay." He replied, turning to look down the road towards Valentine. He would wait for her to get to the point, because for the life of him, Arthur could not figure out why she had contacted him. He could hear Atropos mouthing at her bit behind him. A flock of crows flew overhead, cawing raucously, and the sheep baaed tranquilly. Mary wrung her hands and began to stammer something out. Arthur turned back to her.

"My family." She finally got out. She took a step closer, reaching out to grasp at his forearm, then dropped her hands almost immediately. "I need your help." 

"You mean the family that always looked down on me?" Arthur asked, allowing acid to leak into his voice. "You want me to help them?" He found he was more angry with himself than with Mary — she was a smart woman, had always been good at getting what she wanted. Of course she would go to him for help, with her husband and mother dead, her father a worthless bastard, and her little brother to look out for. And he was the goddamn fool who had come running, allowed himself to be hopeful, gotten cleaned up and dressed in new clothes to try to impress the girl who had broken his heart when he was still young and hopeful and believed in things. More fool him.

"It's my little brother, Jaime." She told him, and he sighed. _Of course it was._ He turned away from Mary, leaning on the porch railing.

"I always liked Jaime. At least compared to the rest of them." He heard the rustle of fabric as Mary moved to join him in leaning on the rail. In his peripheral vision, he could see her leaning forward, struggling to see his face. Arthur kept his eyes cast downward.

"He's broken daddy's heart." That got Arthur to look up.

"Daddy has a heart?" He asked bitingly.

"Don't make me beg you, Arthur." Mary pleaded, and Arthur turned to face her.

"My money, my life, _me..._ I wasn't good enough." Mary flinched at his words, turning to stare straight ahead, towards Atropos and the sheep.

"I'm sorry." She said. Her voice was small. "We need your help real bad." She turned to stare up at him, and Arthur remained quiet, allowing her to continue without protest. "Little Jaime's joined the Chelonians... that strange religious order."

"Good for him." Arthur replied dismissively. He didn't think that could be qualified as _trouble._

"They're quite mad, Arthur! They'll kill him." Mary insisted. "You're the only person he would listen to." _That_ caught Arthur like a blow to the head.

"So, I'm too rough to marry into your family, but it's okay to ask me for help in saving your family." He reiterated. Again, Mary's whole face crumpled, like it caused her physical pain to ask this of him. Maybe it did — it sure hurt him.

"I'm sorry. I understand if you don't wanna help me, but I think of you often." She told him gently. Sadly.

"A long time ago now." Arthur deflected.

"I'm begging you, Arthur." She said softly.

"I say let Jamie live Jamie's life, not the nightmare that his daddy dreamed up for him." Arthur told her, intentionally cutting. Because that had worked out oh so well for her.

"Jamie's so innocent, Arthur." Mary didn't rise to the bait, still adept at navigating Arthur's barbs, even now. He turned away, striding the length of the porch, needing to put some space between them. "Please, Arthur." She pleaded. He turned back, and there she was, still leaning on the porch rail and staring after him. Still heartbreakingly beautiful, still hopelessly beyond his reach. But in that moment, Arthur had an epiphany. He would always love Mary, and she still knew how to push his buttons like no one else on this earth. But he was no longer in love with her. Nothing had changed for her, widow or not. But everything had changed for Arthur. He had known pain he had thought would kill him, and he survived. He had realized he still wanted to love and be loved, regardless of if he deserved that or not. Seeing Mary again had shown him that. But it wasn't Mary he longed for, wasn't her he thought of if he dared allow himself to think of a life lived long enough to see retirement. He thought of Charles, and the way his invitations never felt like a trap. He thought of Charles's quiet honesty and his warm laughter and his reverence for nature; his aptitude with a bow and his inexplicable talent for sword fighting and his competence and his unassuming generosity. He thought of the broad planes of Charles's body and the warmth of his eyes and the stark contrast of his white teeth against his deep russet skin and the inky black of his hair spilling over his shoulders like silk; he thought of his nimble hands and his kindness and the way he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Charles cared for him, was willing to protect him and teach him and tuck him in from the cold. The realization burned in his chest like a cheery hearth on a cold night, and Arthur wondered if he ever would have reached it had he not lanced the wound Mary had left him with. Any pain over Mary was leftover scar tissue, the pain of a childhood dream broken. Charles had found a place in his chest and made himself at home there. And he looked at Mary, and was overcome with a swell of emotions — warm, fierce gratitude, forgiveness, love, pity, sorrow, joy, all wrapped up in a package to big to contain. She was still watching him, totally unaware of the change he had just experienced. He exhaled deeply, and she must have seen something on his face, because her own countenance became hopeful. "Will you help me?" She asked softly, searching his face desperately. And then Arthur thought of Jamie Gillis, all of eleven years old, toothless grin from losing all his baby teeth at once, hanging on Arthur's every word. He thought of Jack Marston, and how he'd spent many nights pacing the camp, rocking him to sleep as a fussy baby because John was gone and Abigail was exhausted and alone. He thought of John, not as he was now but as he had been, twelve years old and clinging to Arthur's back, trembling and wheezing from the pressure of the noose Dutch had cut him out of. And Arthur thought of two lonely graves marked by wooden crosses, in the yard of an abandoned homestead in northern Idaho, and two names he couldn't bear to think of, even now. His whole life felt like a string of innocents placed in his care by the most reckless of fates; an outlaw for a guardian angel. If there were a God, surely He had a sick sense of humor. No matter how he failed, they kept coming. Arthur closed his eyes, shaking his head slightly in defeat.

"Where is he?" He asked. Mary stepped closer, hands gesturing anxiously.

"Somewhere out near Carmody Dell, I think. The rancher there said he'd seen him around the Cumberland Forest area. I just want him back, Arthur." Her face crumpled at that, so devastatingly _sad,_ and it was a sentiment Arthur was well acquainted with. He didn't want Mary to have to feel it the way he did; intimately, and far too late. She wouldn't survive it. The confusing rush of gratitude and love and pity and heartache swelled again, and he locked eyes with her, giving her a firm nod. She was doing right by her family, in the best way she knew how. How could he begrudge her that, awful though her family had been to him? None of that fell on Jaime — as she'd said, he was innocent. "If you find him, bring him to me at the station." Mary requested, gesturing up the road toward Valentine. Arthur made his way down the creaky porch steps, stopping at the bottom to toss over his shoulder:

"I'll see what I can do." And he continued striding across the yard.

"I'll owe you." Mary called after him. Arthur stopped, turning to glance back at her one final time.

"You already owe me." He told her. He turned away at that, mounting Atropos easily and turning her toward the road; he pushed her into a gallop before they left the farmyard behind, and he didn't look back.

//

The sun had finished burning off the gloomy morning, giving way to a beautiful day, blue skies and cool breezes. The Dakota River flowed wide at its mouth where it joined with Flat Iron Lake, the water chattering over the stones that made up its riverbed, cool and quick. John had chosen a flat stretch of riverbank in the shade of Bard's Crossing. Hosea handed Charles a spare rod with a gleam in his eye, and talked him through the process of assembling it. 

"Never seen a telescoping rod like this before." Charles admitted as he strung the line. Hosea chuckled as he did the same — albeit much faster. 

"Good for fellers on the move like us. You keep that one, Charles — I can always make another one." Hosea told him, attaching some cheese to the hook.

"You made this?" Charles asked, the craftsmanship striking him anew.

"Sure. I made that one, made mine, made Arthur's and John's and Jack's and Javier's." Charles nodded, taking a piece of cheese himself and attaching it to the end of his fishing hook as well. John cast out, tossing the line in a graceful, almost lazy arc to _plop_ in the river. Hosea cast his own line out much the same, and Charles stepped up to join them at the water's edge. Hosea glanced over at him. "Just pull back over your shoulder and let it fly — keep your wrist loose, use your shoulders and your elbows." Charles did as he was told, doing his best to mimic what he had watched the other two men do. His hook sailed through the air with only a little bit of wobble to it, landing a few feet closer than he'd intended. "Look at that!" Hosea praised. "Not bad for a first try. And you said you were no fisherman." Hosea teased.

"Must be this rod I'm using." Charles replied good-humoredly.

"Don't you give him too much credit, or his head will get too big to ride back to camp." John snorted from Hosea's other side.

"To be honest, most of my fishing experience is in setting traps — never been any good with a rod." Charles told them, ignoring John's input.

"Traps?" Hosea asked, intrigued.

"It's much easier for me, anyway. And they aren't difficult to make." Charles explained.

"Could you show me how to make them?" Hosea asked.

"Sure." Charles replied. John groaned.

"I told you not to get him started, Charles! Now we're gonna be out here all day!" John piped up again.

"Oh — did you have something else to do today?" Charles asked innocently.

"Oh, fuck off! You've been spending too much time around Arthur; you sound just like him." John growled, but there was no heat behind it. Hosea cuffed him lightly on the ear in his reach.

"We'll learn how to set traps another time, John. Today is for fishing with the two of you! Now quit your whining; you'll scare off all the fish." Before John could reply, his rod was tugged down sharply. "Got a bite there, John." Hosea pointed out mildly as John grunted, struggling to reel the fish in quickly.

"Yeah, I got it." He replied. He seemed to be playing some kind of cat-and-mouse game with the fish — he would reel in quickly and steadily, until the fish began to struggle, at which point John let the line slack, only tugging the rod in the opposite direction of where the fish pulled. Charles watched carefully, committing the motions to memory for if he got a bite of his own.

"The key is to keep it steady and let it wear itself out — then you can reel it in." Hosea explained. Charles nodded.

"I normally have trouble getting bites in the first place." As he said that, John hauled an absolutely massive steelhead trout onto the bank, kneeling to remove the hook.

"Not bad, huh?" John asked, straightening up and gesturing at Hosea.

"Not bad at all, John." Hosea agreed. Charles's line yanked hard, snapping his attention back. He braced himself, taking the same bowlegged, knee-locked stance John had used. _Give and take._ The fish went left, so Charles tugged right, not reeling, letting it struggle. As soon as the thrashing stopped, he reeled quickly. Once he had the fish close enough to the bank, Charles yanked upward on the fishing rod, sending a beast of a largemouth bass scudding across the sand, stopping at his feet. "Nice catch there too, Charles!" Hosea praised. Charles tugged the hook free gently, dropping the fish in the bucket at Hosea's feet along with John's trout. "We'll make a fisherman of you yet." Hosea chuckled.

"We'll see." Charles replied. The three of them fished the morning away, enjoying the fine weather and good company. Charles was pleasantly surprised by his fare, hauling in just as many fish as his companions. The bucket Hosea had brought slowly but steadily filled up with all three of their contributions. Hosea eventually produced a second bucket as well, earning a hearty groan from John.

"I was thinking." Hosea began after a time of companionable silence. "We've still got plenty of meat left over from that bison you and Arthur brought in — why don't we take the fish into Valentine, see if the butcher there is willing to give us a good price?"

"Sounds good to me." Charles agreed amiably. "Better than letting any of it go to waste."

"John?" Hosea prompted.

"Oh, you know me, Hosea. I'm just along for the ride." John answered cheekily. Hosea looked over at Charles, shaking his head and casting his eyes skyward. 

"Lord, give me strength." He muttered. Charles laughed, surprising himself with the realization he had enjoyed himself. He looked over at John and Hosea as they situated the buckets on either side of Silver Dollar's saddle. "If you spill fishwater on my horse, you're on manure duty for a week." Hosea threatened John, who theatrically sloshed the bucket back and forth.

"I'm injured, Hosea! Have some pity!" Listening to their banter, Charles wondered if this is what family felt like. As he broke down his new rod, he thought of Hosea's earlier words, and he realized three things. One, and there was no way to be _certain_ just yet, of course, but if Hosea felt the need to give his blessing, maybe he had a better chance with Arthur than he realized. Two, while there wasn't much about the two of them that could be called traditional, having the approval of Arthur's father felt good; it was something he hadn't even thought to want, but found he cherished it now that he had it. "You comin', Charles?" John asked, already atop Old Boy's back. Charles tucked the fishing rod into his saddle scabbard, noticing in tucked neatly in alongside his gun and assuming Hosea had shaped it that way intentionally. He marveled at the craftsmanship again as he swung into the saddle.

"I'm ready if you are." Charles replied. John led the way again, more eager to head into town than he'd let on. Finally, as they galloped up the road, it occurred to Charles this was Hosea's way of saying _Welcome to the family._ The notion buoyed Charles all the way to Valentine. 

//

Arthur pushed Atropos as fast as he dared down the rocky cliffside, mindful of the loose stones that could break her delicate legs — or worse. Jamie's little Morgan mare was lighter, and he was moving with no caution, desperately fleeing.

"Leave me alone, Arthur! I didn't ask for your help!" He called angrily over his shoulder. The sweet kid with missing teeth from his memory had grown into an angry man; enough like his father to make Arthur sick. The trail levelled out as they left the mountain behind, headed for the Heartlands in the distance. _At least he's going in the right direction,_ Arthur thought irritably.

"Damnit, we gotta do this the hard way?" Arthur called up to Jamie, only a horse length ahead of him.

"You pop up out of nowhere!" Jamie called back. He ducked in front of an oncoming wagon as he cut across the road. "Sorry!" He apologized when the driver had to slow his shire's to avoid a collision. Arthur groaned. 

"They're just using you! Telling you what you wanna hear!" He tried to reason. Jamie still didn't slow.

"What the hell do you know about it, Arthur?" Jamie demanded furiously. _Good question._ The path veered uphill again, Arthur gaining inches on the shorter stride of the Morgan mare. Jamie cut through a gully, narrow enough Arthur had to slow, putting several yards between them now. Popping up out of the gully, Arthur saw Jamie dart around a campsite, precariously close. He followed suit.

"Just stop and let's talk about this!" He pleaded. The rocks past the campsite cleared and they entered the open stretch of the Heartlands, giving Arthur more room. He pushed Atropos again, urging her on.

"I was doing just fine by myself!" Jamie cried.

"For Chrissakes, Jamie, just hold up a minute!" Arthur tried again. Jamie thundered across the railroad tracks at the base of the hill, Arthur close behind.

"This is none of your damn business!" The Heartland Overflow opened before them, narrow gullies and ankle deep stagnant water, with trailing vegetation. Jamie cut towards it, clearly angling to lose Arthur. _Oh no you don't, kid,_ Arthur thought, leaning hard left. Atropos leaped nimbly over a muddy spill of water, angling herself and her rider between Jamie and the warren of paths. 

"Come on, you ain't stupid! You can see this is crazy!" Arthur demanded.

"You're the crazy one!" Jamie shot back, following the flank of the Overflow. Ducks took flight with panicked quacks and rustling feathers as the two horses thundered by.

"Come on, Jamie. Your sister's worried about you!" Arthur tried. Jamie cut to the right, headed uphill again. Guthrie Farm appeared as they crested the hill, and Jamie leapt the fence, right into the farmer's wheat field.

"Woah woah woah! You little jackass!" The farmer snapped. Arthur waved apologetically as he did the same, leaping the fence right beside the angry stranger.

"Sorry mister!" Jamie called back over his shoulder. They cut out the back corner of the Guthrie's property, and Arthur realized Jamie was trying to circle back toward the mountains. _Sneaky little shit._ Arthur thought.

"What are you gonna do, Jamie? Live the rest of your life in the mountains with those people?" Arthur demanded. Atropos cleared the fence easily, and back into the hills they ran.

"They're my friends!" Jamie shouted desperately. "If you don't leave me alone, I'll shoot you! I swear it!" The sound of an oncoming train caught Arthur's attention, and he pushed Atropos desperately, knowing damn well what Jamie was trying to do. 

"What are you talking about?" Arthur demanded, more angrily this time. "You ain't no killer!"

"You don't know who I am!" Jamie argued. The clacking of the train wheels was growing louder, but Arthur didn't dare turn his head to check their position. A cowhand moving a herd of cattle was riding slowly along the road, and Jamie ducked around him, startling the cows. "Move, move!" He urged, and fired several shots into the air behind him. 

"Good Lord!" The cowboy yelped, struggling to keep control of his herd. Arthur ducked around them, keeping his sight fixed on Jamie's retreating back. It had slowed him down enough to give Jamie several yards lead on him, and he growled, slapping his thigh in frustration. The train whistle sounded shrilly, and it came into his sight, headed right for the crossing Jamie was hurtling towards, hands high on his horses neck, urging her on. Arthur knew he didn't have time to catch him, so he slowed Atropos down, avoiding a collision. Jamie crossed the tracks, avoiding the train by a hairsbreadth. Arthur let out a gusty breath he didn't know he'd been holding. He dismounted, and was surprised to see Jamie had done the same.

"Please, Arthur!" Jamie begged from the other side of the passing train, gun still in hand. "I'm a man now... I've found something... a calling!"

"You're just a kid! You're making a big mistake!" Arthur shouted, terrified, struggling to be heard over the roaring of the train.

"I'm not taking advice from you!" Jamie shot back. Even from the other side of the tracks, in the gaps of the train cars, Arthur could see his hands trembling. "You're an outlaw! You leave me alone — they're good people!" Jamie gestured angrily up at the mountains, where presumably the Chelonians still sat on their cliff. "I'm warning you, Arthur Morgan!" The final train car cleared, finally, and Jamie held the gun aloft, still shaking. Arthur held one hand out, slowly, carefully, like he would a startled mustang. Jamie fired off a shot into the air, surprising himself, and terrifying his mount. The mare screamed and galloped away, having enough of the tension. Jamie turned to stare after her for just a second, before turning back to Arthur. "Leave me alone!"

"Please, kid..." Arthur begged. Two wooden crosses. Innocents he had failed. Little boys who needed their fathers, and their fathers weren't there. Panic made his voice hoarse, made his throat tight, made his stomach roll. "Put that gun down."

"I warn you, Arthur!" Jamie shouted. "I'm..." He paused, looking at the gun in his hand like he'd never seen it before. "I'm gonna..." He turned back to Arthur, and the rage on his face cracked. Jamie Gillis was desperately, desperately afraid. And still the boy Arthur had known, all them years ago. "I don't wanna live anymore!"

"Kid, just calm down..." Arthur said, placatingly.

"Leave. Me. Alone!" Jamie shouted with finality. Time seemed to slow, just then, as it always did in a gunfight. But the stakes felt painfully high this time. Arthur drew his gun as easily as drawing a breath, lining his sights up carefully — _oh, so carefully._ Aiming his gun at Jamie felt like some kind of cruel joke, God telling him in no uncertain terms what kind of man he was, and what a man like him was good for. Jamie raised the gun to his head, just as Arthur pulled the trigger. The violent _crack_ of his pistol rent the air, like the whole world had been holding it's breath. Jamie dropped the gun, cradling his hand pitifully to his chest. The bullet had just grazed his thumb — so slightly, he had a nick that could have come from the slip of a knife. He wondered what Mary would say when Jamie tells her he shot him. Arthur strode across the tracks quickly, making his way to Jamie's side.

"Now calm down." He ordered. He picked up the gun Jamie had dropped and turned to him. Jamie was still heaving for breath, holding his injured hand delicately. "Let's go see your sister." Arthur paused, eyeing Jamie just as he eyed Arthur. And then Jamie lunged forward, wrapping his arms around Arthur's shoulders. His breath wheezed.

"Okay." Jamie mumbled into the fabric of Arthur's shirt, nuzzling closer. "Okay." He repeated. Arthur sighed, smiling down at the boy. Not so little anymore, all his teeth grown in, but still Jamie. Arthur patted his back soothingly.

"It's okay, kid." Arthur comforted him. Jamie sniffled sadly, still not letting go.

"Have I been a terrible fool, Arthur?" Jamie asked miserably. Arthur extricated himself carefully from Jamie's grip.

"I don't know." He answered, honestly. "I don't know enough about it." He patted Jamie's shoulder, guiding him towards Atropos, still waiting patiently on the other side of the tracks. He pressed the confiscated gun to Jamie's chest, and the kid fumbled for it. "But one thing I do know..." Arthur continued as they walked. Jamie tucked the gun into his satchel. "There ain't no shame in looking for a better world." He swung up into the saddle, extending a hand to lift Jamie up behind him.

"I missed ya, Arthur." Jamie told him sadly, petting Atropos's velvety nose before accepting Arthur's boost up into the saddle. "Are you and Mary sweet on one another again?"

"Oh, no..." Arthur replied as Jamie got situated on the back of his saddle. "That's all a long time ago now, son." He wheeled his mare in a tight circle, sending her galloping off in the direction of Valentine.

"Well... this wasn't how I thought the day would turn out." Jamie remarked sarcastically.

"It's been a long time, Jamie Gillis. You were a kid last time I saw you, and you didn't try to kill yourself." 

"You know, you taught me how to ride a horse." Jamie told him, thoughtfully. The Cornwall Refinery rose around them as they followed the train tracks.

"Too well, apparently. Chelonia, though? Really? You'd fall for that?" Arthur asked.

"They were very nice to me. They're decent." The _unlike you_ went unsaid, or maybe Arthur was feeling defensive.

"I'm sure. Please tell me you didn't give them any money."

"Of course I did. They rely on charitable donations." Jamie said, a shade defiant.

"Jesus, Jamie. Come on." Arthur drawled.

"I just wanted to believe there might be something good coming my way one day." He replied. "Guess _that's_ dead in the water."

"With the turtles." Arthur answered drily.

"Shut up." Jamie sounded like he was suppressing a laugh. Then he sighed. "All father kept telling me was, 'you won't amount to anything', 'you're not enough of a man'... I had to get away. I couldn't take it anymore."

"Forgive me, but your father's a bully and a coward, don't listen to him."

"Hey, don't talk about him like that." Jamie's defense of his father was quick and halfhearted; reflexive, not genuine.

"What do you want me to say, Jamie?" Arthur asked. "He's a good father? A nice man?"

"He won't be happy I saw you." Jamie sounded none too bothered by that.

"Please send him my worst regards." Arthur replied.

"The thing is... he's right. I'm not good at anything." Jamie said. 

"Come on, that ain't true. Tell me something you like." Arthur encouraged. Jamie was quiet for a beat, then two.

"Uh... well..."

"Don't think too hard."

"Apples, I guess." Jamie said.

"Apples?"

"Yeah, I love apples."

"Okay..." Arthur said, thinking on it. "I was thinking more along the lines of carpentry, or horses, or something, but... alright, go work in an orchard then."

"By that token, you must really like shooting and robbing people." Jamie responded. Arthur bit down a chuckle at that.

"It ain't nothin' like what you see in the papers, though."

"Are you still with Dutch and, what was his name... Hester?"

"Hosea. Yeah. Still the same, sort of." Valentine was looming in the distance now.

"And Bessie and Annabelle?" Jamie asked. Arthur flinched.

"I'm afraid they're both dead."

"Shit." Jamie let out a breath. "Maybe Mary did make the right choice." That comment would have stung, not so long ago, regardless of how true it was. Now he just felt... sadness, for Mary, that _that_ had even been in question.

"No doubt." Arthur grunted. They rounded the road by the train station, and Arthur tugged Atropos to a halt. He dismounted and flicked her reins over the hitching post. "C'mon, your sister must be inside." Jamie followed Arthur up the ramp dutifully, looking akin to a baby duck trailing after it's mother. As if he sensed Arthur's amusement, Jamie jerked his chin up.

"Well, hurry up then, before I run off again." He snarked. Arthur only shook his head in response as he shouldered the train station doors open, gesturing Jamie in ahead of him.

"Jamie!" Mary had been seated in the corner, reading a book, but she jumped up when she saw them, calling out for her brother. Jamie's head whipped over when he heard her, and he ran to her, grasping her in a tight hug much the same as he had Arthur. "Jamie!" Mary repeated, clutching him tightly. "Come home, please, you've... Father's been very sad." Jamie pulled out of her arms then, a frown on his face.

"Father wouldn't know sadness if it died in his bed." Jamie snapped. Arthur made his way around the bench, turning away before taking a seat so Mary couldn't notice his quiet smirk at that. "But I'll come home, for you."

"My boy, my sweet boy..." Her hands clasped together tightly at her chest again, like she was fighting the urge to grab her brother and run before he could disappear again. The conductor's call sounded from outside, along with the squealing of the train brakes. Mary turned her head in the direction of the doors, before whirling to grab her luggage. "Come on." She handed one bag to Jamie, turning and grabbing the other. "Oh, Arthur..." She turned to him, suitcase in hand. "Thank you." She told him, earnestly. She seemed to be at a loss for what to do; she settle on holding one hand out, as if to shake his. He took the suitcase from her and gestured for her to follow her brother.

"It's good to see you, Mary."

"And you, Arthur. And you." She turned away, rushing after Jamie, and Arthur followed the two of them to the train. She turned back to retrieve her bag, but Arthur took her hand instead, guiding her up onto the train before handing her the bag. She turned to go, but paused at the threshold to look back at him. Her eyes were sad again. "I've... You're..." She trailed off, and Arthur said nothing. "Oh, you'll never change... I know that." Arthur still said nothing, breaking eye contact to stare down the road leading into town. He had no impulse to argue with her; he was all too aware of the man she saw. Her footsteps receded, and Arthur turned back, watching her and Jamie through the window as the train rolled away. Like as not, this was the last time he would ever see Mary Gillis. It ached something in him, but all the same, he felt more free than he had in years.

//

Hosea took the lead as they passed the train station, more sure of his course than John or Charles. He led them up the road towards the church, water slopping precariously at the edges of the fish buckets. Charles took up the rear, content to follow behind the other two. He was lost in his thoughts — he'd had a nice day, fishing with John and Hosea, but now his thoughts buzzed around his head like a swarm of bees. Hosea _knew,_ about Charles, what his _preferences_ were, and didn't seem to mind. Encouraged it, even. Arthur had an ex fiancée. That ex fiancée wrote him a letter. Strauss used Arthur for debt collecting, and Arthur hated it. He wasn't such a bad fisherman after all, with the right teacher. John was growing on him, like an annoying little brother. Being around other people didn't seem quite so difficult anymore. Not being alone was the most daunting thing Charles had ever experienced.

"Arthur!" As if Charles's thoughts had summoned the man himself, Hosea called out the name, snapping Charles to attention. Arthur himself was seated on the steps of the church, tucked against the banister and scribbling something in his journal. He looked much better than he had that morning — clean shaven, bathed, new clothes. His head jerked up at the sound of his name, and he snapped his journal closed. He rose to his feet and stretched stiffly, like he'd been seated there for quite a while.

"Hosea, Charles... Marston." He greeted the three of them, with a polite touch to the brim of his hat, as he came down the steps. "What are y'all doin' here?"

"While you were out, gallivanting around, I took these two here fishing." Hosea told him. Arthur turned his gaze to John and Charles, amused.

"Did you now?" He asked. His eyes flicked back to the buckets affixed to Hosea's saddle. "I see you got on just fine."

"That we did — Charles here is a real fisherman." Hosea informed him slyly. Charles laughed.

"I think it was more your expertise than my ability, Hosea." Hosea scoffed at that, shaking his head and waving his hand at Charles.

"You know, we don't need the three of us to sell these fish. I think John and I can handle it. You two ought to check out the saloon here — quite lively, so I hear." Hosea had the audacity to _wink_. Charles froze, but Arthur didn't seem phased.

"Why do _I_ have to go with you?" John demanded.

"Because I said so, John. Come on." Hosea turned, setting off before anyone could respond. John, to his credit, only considered ditching for a moment before rolling his eyes and following after Hosea. Charles turned to see Arthur already looking up at him thoughtfully.

"You wanna get a drink?" He asked. Charles nodded fervently.

"That sounds good to me."

//

Charles hitched Taima next to Atropos outside of the saloon — the small one, not Smithfield's. Arthur had gone on ahead to find them a seat. Once he was sure their horses were situated, Charles headed inside. Late in the afternoon, the saloon was almost empty, and Charles wondered how it stayed in business. There were two men sitting at the bar, one of which was asleep, while the other pored over a book. Arthur sat at a table on the other side of the room, two shots of whiskey in front of him. Charles took a seat across from him, accepting the drink from Arthur gratefully. They clinked their glasses together, downing their shots in sync. Arthur waved a hand over his shoulder, signaling the bartender for refills.

"Long day?" Arthur asked, eyeing Charles carefully. Charles shrugged.

"No, actually... I enjoyed myself, fishing with those two." He replied, toying with his glass. Arthur laughed.

"Every time Hosea took us fishing, it was usually because we were in trouble. Or he wanted to get on us about something." The bartender came over, refilling their glasses before moving away. Arthur took a small sip, staring down into his drink. "So, what was it this time?" He asked, looking up and taking another sip. Charles took a gulp of his own drink, absolutely not wanting to get into what Hosea'd had to tell him.

"Oh, I think I was just a bystander, this time. He was moreso annoyed with John." Charles said carefully. Arthur laughed at that, too loud for the dead saloon. It was endearing. Charles tried not to stare at the flush creeping up Arthur's neck from the whiskey, at the patch of skin just above his collar where the top button was undone, with difficulty.

"What'd Marston do this time?" Arthur asked. Charles decided to be honest — he was curious.

"He and Susan were getting after each other about you, and it got on Hosea's nerves, I think." He stated boldly. Arthur, to his credit, didn't seem all that surprised. He rolled his eyes, tilting his head back to the ceiling.

"They were gossiping about me?" Arthur asked.

"There really isn't much privacy in that camp." Charles commiserated, glad he hadn't offended Arthur.

"You're telling me." Arthur groaned. He threw back the remainder of his whiskey. "You gonna tell me what they said, or do I have to get ambushed by Mary-Beth as soon as I get back to camp?" Arthur asked. Charles laughed at the picture that painted.

"You scared of Mary-Beth?" He teased.

"Yes. Absolutely terrified." Charles took another pull of his own whiskey, drawing it out.

"Something about someone named Mary Linton writing you letters." Charles responded. Arthur let out a gusty sigh, at that.

"Of course they were." He muttered. He stood and went to the bar, and for a moment Charles worried that he _had_ offended Arthur after all, but that was quickly assuaged by Arthur returning with a full bottle. He poured himself another drink and dropped back into his seat.

"Long day?" Charles asked playfully. Arthur offered him a weary smile.

"You could say that."

"If... if you want to talk about it, you can." Charles offered. "Might be one of the few people in the camp who won't go gossiping about you." He tacked on. Arthur sighed again, looking at Charles speculatively from across the table.

"Mary was my fiancée... once upon a time. But I assume you heard that part already." He began. Charles nodded. "Well... she wrote me, letting me know she was in Valentine. Asking to see me." Arthur trailed off again, throwing back some more whiskey. Charles made a mental note to try to get some food in him, as soon as he was done talking. He wasn't entirely sure he could carry Arthur home. "Her husband died. Pneumonia." At that, Charles's stomach sank, but Arthur carried on. "That wasn't why she contacted me. Her brother... well, he'd gotten mixed up with the wrong people, I guess. She needed me to fetch him for her." Arthur took another drink. Charles followed suit. "It irritated me, after all these years, asking me for that? But like a fool, I said yes." Charles felt a flash of anger at this stranger for putting that look on Arthur's face. "I guess I understand foolish brothers making foolish decisions all too well." He added.

"She knows you're a good enough man to help her, then." Charles surmised. Arthur snorted.

"Hardly. But, I can't be too angry at her." Arthur admitted. He had a look on his face, something like gratitude. Charles grabbed the whiskey bottle, pouring himself another drink.

"Why's that?" He asked.

"Seeing her again, I realized I've finally let her go."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rough timeline based purely on my headcanon:  
> Oct. 1885 - They rescue John  
> Nov.1886 - Arthur first meets Mary  
> May 1887 - Arthur proposes to Mary  
> Nov. 1887 - The van der linde gang robs their first bank  
> Feb. 1888 - Mary calls off the engagement  
> March 1888 - Mary and Barry Linton marry


	11. Horseshoe Overlook VII: Eavesdropping, The Gentlest of Crimes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your patience -- for everyone still following this fic, I love you!!! The chapters keep getting longer and longer, hence the update time. Anyway umm enjoy :) once again, comments and kudos appreciated very much! I love feedback!

_May 30, 1899_

"See, Arthur. I ain't so bad." Kieran pointed out. Arthur glanced over his shoulder, past the kid.

"Hey Bill." Arthur called down from the porch. Bill stood at attention at John's side, some leftover vestige of military training he never shook. "You tell Dutch, old Kieran ain't worth killing... just yet." And he turned away to strip the camp while John and Bill mounted up and rode off.

//

As it turned out, Kieran Duffy had been telling them the truth all along. His word had led Arthur, John, and Bill to Six Point Cabin, where they unearthed a whole ants nest of O'Driscoll bastards. Colm had gotten away, to what Arthur assumed would be Dutch's disappointment, although personally, he weren't too concerned with. But they'd killed a whole lot of his men, taken a hefty sum of cash that had been tucked away, and Arthur had gotten himself a nice shotgun off the mantle in the cabin. Not bad for a social call, to Arthur's mind. Not to mention the small matter of Kieran saving his life, earning Arthur's trust and a place with the gang. The whole thing had Arthur feeling a bit guilty — the way they had treated Kieran these past few weeks, himself included. _Torture_ had never been their way — and what else could it be called, tying a feller up, starving him and not letting him sleep? Threatening him with _castration,_ for God's sake. And the kid had still saved his life. The fear in Kieran's eyes when he'd insisted that cutting him loose was as good as killing him was something that would stay with Arthur — just one more thing, he supposed. Arthur sighed, and mounted Atropos quickly, setting off at a gallop for camp, leaving his scattered thoughts and Six Point Cabin far behind him.

//

"Hey, Arthur!" Hosea flagged him down as soon as he set foot back in camp. It was still fairly early in the day, just past noon at the latest — clearing out the O'Driscoll's hideout had taken no time at all. Arthur made his way over to the rock Hosea was using as a bench, nodding politely in greeting, eyeing the truly impressive rifle Hosea had draped across his lap. "You wanna go hunting?" Hosea asked as he cleaned the gun. Arthur reached down, lifting the rifle, testing it's weight in his hands curiously. 

"What are you hunting? An elephant?" Arthur asked, not entirely joking.

"I wish." Hosea replied emphatically. Of course he did. "No, I saw a huge bear. One of the biggest I ever saw." Arthur checked the sights on the rifle, considering. On one hand, Hosea had his fair share of hunting experience, so if he reckoned it was worth going after, that weren't nothing. On the other hand, however... it was Hosea. There was always something. "I reckon nearly a thousand pounds!" Hosea continued, wheedling him. Arthur chuckled, seeing the bait, and handed the gun back to Hosea.

"My god. What, you need me to come with you?" Arthur asked. 

"Of course." Hosea replied without hesitation, extending a hand. Arthur took his hand and hoisted the old man to his feet. "Let's go.

"Well, where are we heading exactly?"

"A lake, up near the Dakota River. Might take a day or two." Hosea told him. Arthur nodded.

"I could do with a break from this place." He assented. 

"Oh, me too. It's been a rough couple of weeks." Hosea agreed. "You need anything?"

"I don't think so, I got all I need."

"Let's go then." Hosea urged, heading for the edge of camp. Arthur followed. "So you still ain't replaced Boadicea?" He asked as they headed for the hitching posts.

"What you mean? I got that gelding from the Adler homestead." Arthur countered. He came to stop at Atropos's side, placing a hearty pat on her hindquarters. "And I got Atropos here off a bounty." Hosea rolled his eyes as he collected Silver Dollar.

"And that _ain't_ what I meant." Hosea replied testily. Arthur sighed, rubbing Atropos’s shoulder apologetically.

“I ain’t found no Boadicea just yet.” Arthur agreed. Hosea huffed, gesturing to the brutish black Shire stallion hitched beside Atropos. Arthur had wondered where he came from.

“I been meaning to offload this big Shire horse for a while now. Unruly bastard!” Hosea said. Arthur approached the stallion, running his hand over the muscular flank appraisingly. 

“Where’d you get him?” Arthur asked.

”Some big, loud-mouthed bastard tried to rob me when I was out riding, so I... well, you know how it is.” Hosea explained. Arthur nodded in agreement, turning back to Atropos.

”I see.”

“Let’s take him to Valentine!” Hosea suggested. “It’s on the way, sort of. There’s a good dealer there. We’ll unload him, you can buy yourself a new horse. See if any of them there speak to you.” Arthur rolled his eyes at that, but Hosea wasn’t dissuaded. “Put your saddle on him, let’s get going!” Arthur did as he was told, quickly unbuckling the cinches and sliding the saddle from Atropos’s back.

”Okay, but I do kind of like this horse.” Arthur commented. 

“Nothing wrong with some extra horses, Arthur!” Hosea countered. “I seem to remember a certain young man bringing every stray horse he found back to camp with him.” Arthur chuckled.

”Aw, when you gonna let that go, Hosea?” Arthur asked as he tacked up the Shire. The stallion was giving him a real mean look from the corner of his eye, and Arthur made sure to keep his hands out of biting range.

”Let it go?” Hosea asked. “You’ve always been good with horses, Arthur. If you bring any extras in, we can train ‘em up, see if we can get good money for them. Paper’s shouldn’t be too hard to forge.” 

“And here I was, thinking you was suggesting an honest line of work.” 

“Hey, it ain’t dishonest! A horse trained by you is as good as any papered horse across the states.” Hosea insisted. 

“I guess.” Arthur assented.

”This is gonna be fun, Arthur.” Hosea continued. Arthur loosed the stallion’s reins from the hitching post, dodging a feint of teeth.

”He won’t throw me?” Arthur asked dubiously. 

“No, he’s an angel — if I’m near him.” Hosea insisted. “Okay — see if you can get your leg over that brute.” Arthur clamored up into the saddle, one hand steadying the stallion with a firm grip on his withers. 

“Easy, big fella.” Arthur crooned. The stallion shifted under Arthur, a ton and a half of pure muscle. Arthur settled into the saddle firmly, taking the reins. 

“Alright, let’s head into town.” Hosea said, leading them down the path. “No bar fights, please. I heard about that.”

”I’ll do my best.” Arthur snarked. 

“We’re heading out! Might be gone a couple of days!” Hosea shouted over his shoulder as they left the camp, for whoever was on guard duty to hear. They pushed the horses into a steady lope as they left the trees behind. “They got a good range of horse tack at the Valentine stables. Some beautiful saddles... I used to have a real nice one.” Hosea mused to Arthur.

“Yeah, what happened to that?” Arthur asked.

”Got stolen outside that saloon in Deer Creek.” Hosea reminded him. 

“Oh, I remember now, just about. That turned into a long day.” That had been just after John had disappeared, explaining why Arthur had nearly blocked it out from his memory. He shook his head, shaking the thought away.

“Yes, remember?” Hosea urged. “Mac went crazy, threatened to kill the whole town. And Davey was passed out so cold we left him there, came back in the next day and he woke up, started right back drinking again!” The two of them laughed fondly at the shared memory. Arthur sighed.

”I miss those boys.” He said. 

“Jenny, too.” Hosea agreed. “She had some spark, that girl.” 

“It must be pretty hard on Lenny.” Arthur voiced the concern he’d been carrying since Blackwater, now that they were safe enough to voice concerns that weren’t a matter of life and death. “You could tell he was sweet on her.” 

“Well, Lenny and Jenny could never have worked.” Hosea explained. “That’s like Arthur and Martha. Or Bill and Phil.”

”Maybe you’re right...” Arthur agreed. Still ached something fierce for Lenny, though. For the loss all of them had endured. “Does feel a bit like our luck died with them, too.” The Shire tossed his head irritably when Silver Dollar loped a bit too close for his liking. Arthur jerked the reins, reminding him to play nice. 

“Nonsense! We’ll be alright.” Hosea reassured him. “Just need some money to get back on our feet.” 

“I hope so.” Arthur replied. “You find a way to offload those Cornwall bonds yet?” 

“Not yet. They’re still very hot — need to be done right.” The road split, and Hosea turned them down the branch leading into town. Arthur could see the Valentine auction yard coming into view, its barns looming at the top of the hill. “I have a couple of leads I’m looking into.” They passed a Suffolk Punch mare, hitched to a wagon and waiting just outside the auction yard. The Shire jinked sideways, wrestling Arthur’s grip on the reins. “Don’t let that big bastard get the better of you there, Arthur!” Hosea laughed. Arthur settled deeper into the saddle, communicating with his seat and his legs. The Shire quieted, continuing his clunky lope without further complaint.

"He's alright." 

"Stables are just up ahead." Hosea pointed out. They passed the butcher, who raised a hand in greeting to Hosea. The two men slowed their horses to a stop in the natural plaza between the stables and the main road. "Alright, go sell that big brute and buy yourself a horse."

"Okay." Arthur agreed.

"I'm going off to the general store, get a few things to lure that bear out with... meet you back here in a bit." Arthur offered Hosea a two-fingered salute as he turned down the road, and dismounted to lead the Shire into the barn.

//

"Looks like a nice animal you got there. You happy?" Hosea greeted Arthur as he emerged from the stable with his new horse. A pretty, flashy thing she was, a tall and leggy Thoroughbred mare. She was a black reverse dapple, with four white stockings and a sickle shaped blaze, while her grey dapples on a raven colored base coat looked like smoke. The skin on her muzzle was a soft, delicate pink, and her limpid eyes were bright and inquisitive. Arthur was fairly certain she should have cost about ten times what the Shire was worth, but he wasn't enough of a fool to pose that question to the stablemaster. The man had even thrown in a free brush.

"Guess we'll see." Arthur replied gruffly. He didn't want to give Hosea the impression he'd been right about finding a horse that _spoke to him,_ whatever that meant. The old man grinned, in that way he did when he saw right through Arthur, so it was probably a wasted effort.

"She have a name yet?" Hosea asked.

"Nyx." Arthur told him, keeping his face smooth when he jumped up into the saddle. Hosea knew better than to push any farther than that. "Okay girl, let's go." Arthur murmured encouragingly as he settled into his new saddle. One ear tipped back delicately to listen while she scanned her surroundings. 

"Alright, let's get going. We got quite a ride ahead of us." Hosea told him. 

"Lead the way." Arthur replied. "So, what's this lake we're headed for?" He asked. Nyx shifted into a brisk trot as they fell in beside Hosea.

"It's called O'Creagh's Run, up in the mountains east of Cumberland Falls. I just hope I can remember how to get there."

"Back into the mountains? I sure didn't figure on that." Arthur questioned, thinking of how sick Hosea had fallen in Colter.

"But this time, we're doing the chasing." Hosea assured him. The road headed uphill north of Valentine, looping past Chadwick Farm. Arthur wondered, briefly, if it was worth telling Hosea he'd run into Mary. Before he could make up his mind, Hosea continued on.

"So how are things with you and John?" He asked. 

"Fine." Arthur answered sullenly. 

"Ain't it about time you let it go now?" Hosea pressed.

"It was a year, Hosea. He ditched us for a goddamn year." Arthur snapped. 

"I've spoken to him many times... he knows he did wrong. He just wants to put it behind him."

"I'm sure he does." Arthur replied bitingly. "There's a code, Hosea, and he knows that. Not to mention running off on Jack." Arthur continued, bitterness coloring his words. "He ain't Trelawny. You and Dutch raised him, just as much as me."

"I know, but it's done. Has been for a while now." Hosea argued. Arthur sighed in frustration.

"But I'm just holding on to a grudge and making things hard for little Johnny, is that it?" Arthur asked.

"No, Arthur! That's not what I'm getting at." Hosea snapped back, getting drawn into it too.

Arthur didn't answer, knowing anything he said in anger he would later regret. The two rode side by side in tense silence for a moment. The landscape had changed, the lush grass of the Heartlands turning to rock and towering pines as they crossed into Ambarino. He could hear songbirds twittering in their nests, tucked into the branches high above their heads. The breeze was already brisker, more cutting. Hosea sighed.

"He's your brother, Arthur. How long you gonna keep this up?" Hosea finally asked. Arthur shrugged, jerking his chin angrily.

"He ain't changed at all. He just got sick of being alone."

"If it's about Jack, you could always try talking to him, Arthur." Hosea suggested, more gentle now. Arthur shot him a warning look, and Hosea sighed again, dropping it. He knew how far he could push. "No one is expected to stay if they don't want to, Arthur. You know how it is."

"He _disappeared_ , Hosea. No word, no note, no trail. We thought he was dead." Arthur stopped, taking a steadying breath.

"I know, Arthur." The two men fell quiet, carrying on the trail. The road carried them farther and farther north, into the mountains. The Cumberland Forest rose thick and lush around them, dropping the temperature as it blocked out the sun. They reached a fork in the road, and Hosea slowed his horse to a walk. Nyx mimicked the change in pace easily, earning a soft pat from Arthur. There was a sign nailed to the trunk of the tree in the cleft of the trail.

_< —Wapiti Reservation_

_< — Bacchus Bridge_

_Emerald Ranch — >_

"Okay, I think we need to head right up here." Hosea instructed. Picking up the pace again, the two continued on. Not too much time passed before a small, perfectly symmetrical little pond came into view on the right side of the trail. "Yes... I remember this place. Moonstone Pond. We're going the right way." They pushed on. The sun continued it's trek through the sky as another hour rolled past, then two. They climbed higher into the foothills of the Grizzlies. Arthur remained quiet, silently stewing about Hosea's earlier words, and Hosea left him to it, knowing he had to let Arthur work through it on his own. The road narrowed to a trail that led over an outcropping of rock, reminiscent of the arched spine of a basking cat. A much larger lake sprawled far below, glimmering in the sunlight. A small cabin was nestled against the lakeshore, with a short dock jutting out over the water. A tiny skiff of an island hunched in the middle of the lake, overcrowded with towering pines and tumbled boulders. The Grizzlies towered in the backdrop, granite and grey and white snowcapped mountains in the distance. It was beautiful.

"That's the lake there. Good — we made it. Let's loop around to the other side." Hosea spoke up finally. They loped along the curve of the trail, running adjacent to the lakeshore far below. The horses picked their way carefully down the rocky path, mindful of the loose stones beneath their hooves. Nyx was already proving herself a fine partner for the trail, curious and brave and smart, quick to learn and eager to please. She followed Silver Dollar's lead happily, and Arthur looked forward to working on the eager mare's training. The fine weather and pleasant ride had done it's job, and Arthur found he couldn't hold onto his irritation with Hosea.

"It's good to have Sean back." Arthur spoke up finally, breaking the silence.

""It is." Hosea agreed. "Even if he is a deeply annoying little Irish bastard. You did good, bringing him home." 

"I try to do something right from time to time." Arthur grumbled. The terrain softened as they got closer to flat land again, scrubby grass and bright orange wildflowers taking hold between stretches of rocky soil.

"Look there — rabbits!" Hosea pointed to the small creatures scampering through the grass beside the trail. "Maybe we should try to catch one to cook." He suggested. Arthur unslung the bow from his saddle and settled it against his shoulder.

"Sure." Arthur kept Nyx at a trot as he followed the faint impression the rabbits had left in the grass. It didn't take him long at all to catch up with it at the bottom of the hill. Arthur knocked an arrow carefully, taking aim and letting it fly in the same breath. The rabbit fell with a muted _thump,_ and he took a second down in the same fashion. Arthur grabbed his catch and returned to the top of the hill where Hosea was waiting, with the rabbits hanging from either side of his saddle. Hosea let out a low whistle at the sight. 

"Who are you, and what have you done with Arthur?" Hosea called teasingly. Arthur rolled his eyes.

"Shut up."

"I reckon we set up camp for the night, get an early start on that bear in the morning." Hosea suggested.

"Sure." They dismounted in the natural clearing between some boulders and the side of the massive hill they had followed earlier in the day. The two of them fell quickly and easily into the familiar rhythm of setting up camp for the night, years of history guiding the routine motions. Arthur unloaded their gear from the horses while Hosea got a campfire going. Arthur finally took a seat across the fire from Hosea and set to work skinning the rabbits. 

"Rabbits are delicious on an open fire like this." Hosea commented, breaking the relative silence. Arthur nodded but didn't otherwise respond, focusing on his task. He wrapped the pelts and tucked them away in his satchel — he could clean those properly once they get back to camp. He broke down the remainder of the rabbits efficiently, setting the cuts of meat on a bit of waxed cloth. The bones and other assorted offal were dropped in Hosea's fishing bucket. Arthur rose to his feet and walked down to the lakeshore. It was quiet as the sun began to set — it had taken longer than he'd thought for them to get up here. An early rising owl hooted somewhere nearby, and a coyote barked farther off. Arthur dumped the offal in the water and rinsed out the bucket, wary of attracting predators while they slept. He returned to camp and started cooking the meat. One cut at a time, on the end of his knife over the fire. Hosea watched him from across the fire. It wasn't tense, exactly, but Arthur knew Hosea wasn't quite done with the discussion from earlier, and waiting for it to break kept him quiet. Arthur ate as he cooked, only about half of the meat he cooked making its way back to the makeshift plate.

"You want some?" He asked, finally. Hosea shook his head.

"No, it's later than I had realized. I don't like to eat this late."

"Alright... after all that drama." Arthur chuckled, but he wrapped the remaining meat and put it in his satchel as well, along with the rabbit pelts. He hoped the cloth and the leather of his satchel was enough to keep predators from coming around. He tugged a sprig of mint free from the bundle he kept and wrapped it around the meat, just to be safe.

"Listen, Arthur..." Hosea began. Arthur grimaced but set his satchel down, knowing it was better to just get it over with.

"No one else would have been welcomed back that easy, after that long, and you know it." Arthur said flatly, staring into the flames. He could feel Hosea watching him, but he didn't look up to check. It made his skin feel too tight — like he was a kid again, and they _knew_ he was lying just by looking at him. But he wasn't a kid, and that wasn't a lie.

"Maybe." Hosea conceded, finally. Surprise had Arthur looking up from the fire. "Would you ever try?" Hosea asked him.

"No, of course not." Arthur answered automatically; a reflexive thing, no thought needed. Hosea's face tightened up at that, like he had offered up a math problem that Arthur had gotten spectacularly wrong, somehow.

"Then why does it bother you so much?" _That_ threw Arthur for a loop. They stared at each other for a long, quiet moment — a standoff, of sorts.

"What happened to loyalty?" Arthur asked, but the defense sounded weak, even to his own ears. Hosea pinned him with another long, sad look.

"Getting out ain't the same as bein' disloyal, Arthur."

"He wasn't trying to get out, Hosea, he was just running away! From his family."

"Maybe." Hosea hedged. "...Bessie and I tried to get out, you know."

"I remember." Arthur replied, tersely. The memories of Hosea and Bessie leaving, and Dutch in the following year, were not something he could ever forget. "But it was different. You didn't disappear. You were trying to go straight, to have a family — that was _not_ what Marston was doing."

"But it didn't stick." 

"But you still _tried._ And you were with Bessie. We knew where to find you."

"So if he had taken Abigail and Jack with him, would you still be so angry?" Hosea asked. Arthur paused, forcing himself to consider his answer.

"As long as they told us where they were going, and we knew they were okay... of course not." Hosea rocked forward in his seat, as if proximity could transmit his message through Arthur's thick skull.

"I think if you would just tell him about I-"

"Don't."

"Arthur-"

"I said _don't,_ Hosea." Arthur snarled, clambering to his feet. He was full of ancient anger, and he couldn't hold it in his limbs. He stood, glaring at Hosea. Hosea raised held his hands up in defeat. Arthur sat back down. The rage left as suddenly as it had come, and it left him drained. He leaned back, not looking at Hosea but staring up at the stars this time. They felt cold, and indifferent, and vast and ancient and terrifying. He closed his eyes.

"Fine. But Arthur... you're going to have to forgive yourself eventually, or it's going to kill you." Arthur opened his eyes and looked back at Hosea. His father, in all the ways that counted.

"This ain't about me."

"Isn't it?" Hosea asked, one brow arching sardonically. Arthur shook his head in frustration, and Hosea's face softened up. "I'm just worried about you, son."

"Ain't no need for all that, Hosea." Arthur assured him. Hosea sighed, scrubbing a hand down his face tiredly. Then he nodded at Arthur's satchel.

"You did real good with those rabbits." Arthur sat up, confused by the abrupt change of subject — Hosea wasn't fond of backing down, in his experience. "You like usin' that bow?" Confused, Arthur grabbed a twig off the ground beside him and began methodically stripping it of its bark.

"Sure, I guess. A lot easier to hunt with, now that I've got the hang of it. Better for stealth, too."

"That Charles must be a good teacher then, huh?" Hosea asked.

"Sure. He taught me, so he must be."

"You ain't stupid, Arthur, don't give me that." Arthur tossed the twig into the fire in lieu of responding. Hosea just kept _staring,_ though.

"You know, Charles told me he made that bow himself. The arrows, too." Arthur finally said.

"Did he now?" Hosea asked mildly.

"He's a hell of a hunter. I think the two of you would get along." 

"We got on just fine when we went fishing the other day. I like him."

"Yeah, that's good. So do I." Arthur glanced away, into the trees. Hopefully Hosea wouldn't read too much into _that._

"You ain't got on with anyone like that since John left." At that, Arthur jerked his head back to stare incredulously at Hosea. He plowed on before Arthur could formulate a response. "Now, don't bite my head off just yet, Arthur. I'm just saying. You used to be close with John. I can't force you to forgive him, or go back to how you two were before — it ain't all on you, anyway. But when was the last time you just had a _friend—"_

"I live with over twenty people!" Arthur protested.

"—that you actually _liked,_ beyond just running with them? Feeling obligated to watch their ass?" Arthur clenched his jaw, saying nothing. Hosea continued, albeit more gently now. "I was just saying that I like Charles. He's a good man. I'm glad you have him."

"I don't _have_ him."

"I think you could." Hosea told him. Arthur shook his head fiercely, like he could shake the thought away before it could take root.

"You said it yourself, Hosea. He's a good man. This ain't the only life for him. He ain't gonna take up with me."

"This ain't the only life for you, either, Arthur." Hosea said, softly. Arthur laughed mirthlessly at that.

"You know there ain't no getting out for me."

"Do you remember the year after Bessie passed?" Hosea asked.

"Of course I do." Arthur replied. Another memory he could never just _lose._

"Do you blame me for her death? Do you think I should blame myself?" Hosea asked.

"Don't be ridiculous, Hosea. She was sick. How could that possibly have been your fault?" At that, Hosea just smiled, sad and bitter.

"Doctor said TB isn't always a death sentence. Could have gone west, found a quiet place in the desert to rest. She could have had years." Arthur was stunned to silence, for a moment. Finally, he found his voice.

"Why didn't you?" He asked, voice small. Hosea's face looked ancient — lines that had not been there moments before suddenly cutting into his skin, thrown into focus by the flickering firelight. Arthur's chest clenched painfully.

"Bessie wouldn't go. She didn't want to leave you and John, and didn't want to take you boys away from Dutch and Susan and Annabelle. Didn't want to take _me_ away from you boys, or from Dutch. But most of all... she didn't want to be the one to force me and Dutch to sit still." Hosea looked down, like the weight of his confession was bowing his shoulders. "I could have pushed it, or convinced Dutch to go. But I respected her wishes, and it killed her."

"I'm sorry, Hosea." Arthur told him. _Sorry_ felt horribly inadequate.

"I know all about grief, and guilt, and what they can do to you, Arthur. I can't make you talk about it, or move on, or let it go. I would be a hypocrite to ask you to, anyway. But you are my son, no matter how old you get. You are Bessie's son, and I know she loved you till her last breath. I just want you to be happy. And I know Bessie does, too, wherever she is."

"I..." Arthur was so horribly bad at _talking._ He wished he had the words to show his gratitude to Hosea, for all these years. Hosea continued on.

"I know it ain't that simple, or easy. Just... keep yourself open to things. To being happy. Not just...existing, but being actually happy." 

"I can try." Arthur promised.

"Good. That's all I can ask." Hosea rose stiffly to his feet, stretching. "Come on, we might as well get some sleep. I want to get after that bear at first light." Arthur stood as well, and got settled in his bedroll, a safe distance from the fire, but still within the pool of warm light. Arthur glanced over at Hosea, doing the same across the fire. "Goodnight, Arthur."

"'Night." Arthur replied. Hosea's breathing evened out quickly, devolving into the familiar, rattling snores. Arthur was overcome with warm affection for his adoptive father, and appreciation for all he'd done for him. As Arthur tried to fall asleep, he allowed himself to imagine a world where he followed Hosea's advice. _Happiness_ weren't the kind of thing he dwelled on, often. He imagined a lot of things, but nothing satisfied that elusive label. Maybe happiness was something he had forgotten, in between all the things he could never let himself forget. Arthur rolled over onto his side, trying to get comfortable. it was full dark now, and he listened to the fire crackling behind him. He listened to the nighttime critters rustling around in the brush, and he reached down deep into his chest, searching for happiness. Drowsiness crept up on him eventually, though. The last thing Arthur thought of was the feeling in his breast when he'd woken up in Colter, or in his bed at Horseshoe, to realize Charles had tucked him in for the night. He thought of the timbre of Charles's voice and the curve of his lips in a private smile. In the liminal space between the waking world and unconsciousness, Arthur allowed himself to pretend happiness was something he could have.

//

_May 31, 1899_

Morning came cold and quick and sudden, this high up in the mountains. He'd been roused before sunup by the smell of coffee brewing, and Hosea had passed him a mug not too long after that. Now, Arthur sat on his bedroll, nursing a fresh coffee and watching Nyx graze beside their little campsite. Her dapples shone like ghostly coins on her pitch colored coat. Beside him, Hosea was kneeling at the fire, messing with a rag, a knife, a bundle of herbs and a fish. Arthur tried to ignore Hosea's irritable muttering, focused on his coffee and his mare. At first glance, Nyx was the standard type of lean he would expect of a Thoroughbred, but as he watched her, he noticed a hollowness to her back and her neck that spoke of poor body condition — a result of malnutrition and lack of exercise. He made a mental note to stop in Valentine again soon, to pick up some supplemental feed for her. The hay all the camp horses lived off of wouldn't be quite enough to bulk her back up, given the amount of riding Arthur did. 

"You ready to get going, Arthur?" Hosea's voice broke into his horse induced distraction.

"Sure." Arthur agreed.

"You take down the camp, I'll get the horses ready."

"Sure, old man — I'll take the heavy work." Arthur chuckled, shaking his mug dry as he stood. Hosea waved a hand at him in annoyance, but otherwise didn't comment, just making his way over to their horses. Arthur gathered up their bedrolls, the stool Hosea insisted on bringing every time, his cooking grate and the god damned fish bucket. He kicked dirt over the smoldering remains of the campfire and joined Hosea at the horses, wordlessly handing over Hosea's half of their supplies. Arthur offered Nyx a carrot, which she took happily. He rubbed the delicate pink skin on her muzzle while she crunched away at her treat, leaning into him. 

"Makin' friends?" Hosea asked, already mounted up. Arthur just grinned before mounting up himself.

"Lead the way."

//

"You're fine, old man."

"Of course I'm fine — it's nothing." Arthur offered a hand silently, hauling Hosea to his feet. "...nothing at all." Hosea trailed off, hands pressing on his back, as if in pain. 

"Thank you, I think. That was fun." It had been fun, actually, despite almost getting eaten by a monster of a grizzly bear, and emptying his pistol into it's skull only to send it running off. The trip, somehow, didn't feel like a waste. Arthur wondered if this was the same grizzly he and Charles had seen, back in Colter. He didn't know much about the hunting ranges of grizzly bears. Hosea whistled for Silver Dollar, and Arthur handed him the rifle. Hosea took it and eyed Arthur — considering, and a bit sad.

"You know what, Arthur Morgan? I'm a little old and beaten up to be after the biggest game. You can have this." Hosea produced a folded sheet of paper from his coat pocket, handing it over.

"What is it?"

"It's a map. A man in a bar gave it to me — well, I stole it from him, but that's another story. He said it told him where to find some real big animals." Arthur nodded, pocketing the map.

"Thank you."

"It's a pleasure. You saved my life, Arthur." Hosea said, uncharacteristically solemn. "I think I am going to go back to camp to lick my wounds. You coming, or are you gonna track down that monster?"

"I'm comin' with you. I don't reckon this is the kind of hunt to go on alone." Arthur told him, walking over to Nyx, who had followed up behind Silver Dollar, and snagging her reins. Hosea did the same with his own horse, mounting up.

"Well, let's get going then."

"Sure." 

"And Arthur? Maybe you can bring Charles out here sometime — as backup, that is, if you decide to go after that bear."

"Maybe I will."

//

"Who's there!" Bill shouted as the sound of hoof beats rang out on the path into camp. 

"It's just us." Arthur responded as they came into view.

"Well, look who's back." Bill's voice was never exactly _pleasant,_ but he sounded especially irritating today. They rode right past, ignoring him. Arthur glanced over his shoulder after a moment, checking Bill was out of earshot.

"You think Dutch is gonna give us shit for being gone? You know he's been..." Arthur trailed off, unsure of how to finish that sentence, but knowing Hosea would understand either way.

"Just tell him we were scoping a lead. He doesn't need to know it was a big, furry one." They came to a stop at the hitching posts, and Hosea shot him a conspiratorial grin. Arthur snorted.

"Sure, sure. Whatever you say." Hosea dismounted then, walking away with a brief salute. Arthur watched him go, a troubled frown creasing his brow. He just looked so _old_ — not that Arthur would ever tell him that. Hosea moved stiffly across the camp, presumably to get some rest after the ordeal of the past day. Kieran chose that moment to pop up out of God-knows-where, scaring Arthur half to death when he grabbed Silver Dollar's reins. "Jesus, kid, warn a feller!" Arthur growled, annoyed at how much he had jumped. Kieran went wide eyed, like he expected Arthur to pull a gun on him again. 

"Sorry, Mister Morgan! I can tend that new horse of yours, if you'd like." Kieran offered, but Arthur just shook his head.

"Nah, you just take care of Hosea's horse. I gotta teach this one where her food comes from, yet." Arthur resisted the urge to add a much softer _don't I, girl_ to the end of his sentence.

"...Right." Kieran agreed nervously. The two worked in not quite comfortable silence, untacking the horses and brushing them out, picking the dirt and gravel from their hooves. "She looks like a real fine horse, Mister Morgan." Kieran commented after some time.

"She is." Arthur agreed. "And would you quit calling me that, O'Driscoll? Arthur's fine." _Seeing as you saved my life, and all_ he didn't add. Kieran glanced over at Arthur from the corner of his eye, still focused on brushing Silver Dollar's shoulder.

"I'll call you Arthur if you quit callin' me O'Driscoll." Kieran countered. Arthur bit back a grin, and pretended to deliberate.

"Okay, Kieran." He extended a hand, and Kieran took it warily and shook it. The kid looked like he half expected Arthur to turn around and smack him, and another wave of guilt choked Arthur. "Hey, kid — she look underfed to you?" Arthur asked, gesturing to Nyx — a peace offering. Kieran turned a critical eye over the mare.

"Yeah, her frame looks a little hollow, I think. Nothing wrong with her, though." He added hurriedly. "Nothing some food and exercise won't take care of, anyway." Arthur blinked, genuinely impressed. He found not many men cared about their horses beyond what it took to get from place to place.

"That's what I was thinking, too." He agreed.

"I'll make sure she gets plenty of feed, for the time being." Kieran promised, and Arthur clapped a hand down on his shoulder.

"Thanks kid. Kieran."

//

Life is incredibly confusing. Charles had found himself well acquainted with that fact for many years now, but somehow, it never got any easier to accept. His conversation with Arthur in the saloon had shed some light on the _ex fiancée_ John and Hosea had been talking about. On one hand, learning that Arthur was not planning on rekindling that relationship was reassuring. Plus, it had sparked something warm and sure in Charles, that Arthur trusted him enough to confide in him — _plus_ it had just been _nice,_ just spending time together and getting a drink, like normal people who weren't on the run for their lives, even if it was just for an evening. He'd learned more about his friend, and it had only reaffirmed to Charles that Arthur was someone worth caring for. He had learned that Arthur was unapologetically funny, in an understated kind of way — snide quips you wouldn't see coming, and observations that had Charles doubled over in laughter. He learned Arthur was apt to toss an extra coin on the bar for the bartender whenever he bought a drink, and Charles learned it was a habit he had picked up from Dutch and Hosea. Finally, he had learned Arthur was kind to strangers. There had been two men sitting at the bar while Arthur and Charles drank whiskey at their table in the corner — an author and an ex-gunslinger, if Charles had understood correctly. Arthur had gotten into some kind of discussion with the author when he went up to the bar to buy them another round, and returned not only with drinks but a stack of photographs and the promise of work.

"You wanna ride out with me for this one?" Arthur had asked, dropping the stack of photographs onto the table like a deck of cards.

"Of course." Charles had replied, without hesitation. "Although I scarcely understand what the job even _is."_ And he had taken a slow pull of whiskey, waiting for a further explanation. But Arthur had just laughed, too loud and unencumbered and endearing. The rest of their evening had passed in a haze of honeyed warmth and whiskey, some early summer cicadas screeching on their ride back to camp, punctuated with their fond laughter and the anticipation of _something._ Charles had realized, beyond the hopeful yearning and the obvious attraction, he just liked Arthur, for who he was. The man made a fine friend, for all he did to convince Charles otherwise, and without either of their say-so, Charles supposed they had become dear friends, in an impossibly short time. The thought of losing his newfound friend set something aching in Charles, but he had lived enough life to know better than to think he could carry on this way, without acknowledging or giving voice to the yearning that became stronger and stronger, the attraction that made him lose his voice when Arthur was near. Charles had spent enough of his life alone, ignoring the softer parts of himself that carried things like love and friendship, that the thought of shutting himself away now felt treacherous. He wasn't sure why these people were different than all the others he had met in his life, but he had found a home; not a place, but a group of people. It made him want for things he had convinced himself he could live without, and just brave enough to chase them. But despite knowing what he wanted, the matter of friendship, and being on the run in a gang together, complicated things, leaving Charles unsure of how to proceed. He was even more cautious now, with Arthur's friendship in his hands. Having a friend was a novelty to Charles, and he got the impression it was to Arthur as well. Most of the gang seemed to look up to him, yet Arthur kept them mostly at a distance. It was confusing, and Charles couldn't quite get his head around it, other than to assume something had happened that he was missing — beyond John and Mary Linton, at least.

Charles sighed and shook himself, annoyed with his musing. They were on the run, wanted across several states, and all he could find it in himself to worry about was a crush on a fellow gang member. It felt incredibly juvenile, and yet he couldn't quite bring himself to totally regret it. The red roan mare Charles had been grooming while he stewed in his thoughts twitched irritably at the stillness of the brush. He chuckled softly, running the brush down her flank in apology. Charles liked spending spare time with the horses. They were simple and restful and didn't mind that he didn't make conversation with them. _Kind of like Arthur_ , Charles's mind supplied unhelpfully. He offered the mare a chunk of carrot from his pocket, which she took after only a moments deliberation. The scout fire at his back popped suddenly, and she swished her tail in annoyance. Ennis and Old Belle were staring him down, waiting to see if treats and grooming would come their way, but Charles ignored them. The horses who had specific owners tended to get quite a bit more attention than the miscellaneous camp horses, and Charles didn't mind working to even things out when he could. He moved on to a sturdy little bay Morgan gelding, setting to work detangling his mane. Spring was giving way to summer in New Hanover, and the lush greenery of the surrounding woods provided cool shade from the midday sun. Tucked away in the clearing with the horses, Charles was invisible to the nearby camp. The little bay gelding relaxed as Charles moved on from his mane to running the brush over his flanks, working the dirt off of him. Charles was able to watch and listen as the daily rhythm of the camp washed over them, a soothingly familiar background noise. Karen and Grimshaw were arguing by the girls wagon, while Tilly and Mary-Beth mended socks nearby and spoke among themselves and pretended they couldn't hear the argument developing alongside them, not wanting to get drawn into it themselves. Abigail was over by Pearson's wagon, bathing Jack in a bucket. Jack was protesting loudly, splashing and squealing while his mother tried to wash him. Abigail chastised him at regular intervals. At the center of camp, John and Dutch seemed to be having some kind of dispute — Dutch had a book open on his lap, but was engaged in a terse conversation with John. He couldn't quite make out their words, but the tenor of their voices sounded obviously tense. Every time Jack's squeals carried across the camp, John flinched as if he had been struck. Hosea was leaning back against the tree at the edge of camp, taking a nap with his hat tilted down over his eyes. John seemed to give up on his conversation with Dutch, storming away to take a seat near Hosea. By the camp entrance, Charles noticed Arthur and Kieran having a conversation, and gesturing at an unfamiliar horse wearing Arthur's saddle. He must have gotten this one when he and Hosea had gone... wherever it was, exactly, they had gone. As Charles watched, Arthur clapped Kieran on the shoulder, laughing. Kieran stumbled a bit under the strength of Arthur's hand, looking harried, but much less fearful than he had been that morning. Charles chuckled at the sight. He had noticed all the younger kids in the game — Sean, Lenny, Karen and Tilly and Mary-Beth, even John, _even Jack,_ honestly — all looked up to Arthur with something like hero worship, and Kieran was well on his way to the same — once he stopped being so skittish. Grimshaw let out an unintelligible shout, storming away from whatever she and Karen had been fighting about, and the three girls moved to sit at the back of their wagon, facing away from the camp and sharing a cigarette. Their laughter, likely at Grimshaw's expense, warmed the still air. Charles ducked down, running a hand over the gelding's legs, checking for injuries, before lifting his hoof. Footsteps passed him by, but Charles didn't look up. There was a stone lodged in the horse's hoof, and Charles was focused on getting it out without getting himself kicked in the face.

"Hey, Arthur!" Karen called out, and the passing footsteps halted.

"Ladies." Came Arthur's reply. Without looking up, Charles could so easily picture the polite hat tilt he would offer the girls in greeting. Charles grinned stupidly, fiercely grateful there was no one around to see him except for the horses. Old Belle snorted, and to Charles it sounded a bit judgmental. _Hush,_ he mouthed at the mare. She ignored him, turning back to graze.

"What do you think about women, Mister Arthur?" Tilly asked. Charles sucked in a breath, waiting for the answer just as eagerly as the girls surely were. He envied their youthful girlishness in giving them clearance to ask such things, before reminding himself he was being ridiculous. Arthur took a moment, seeming to actually deliberate his answer.

"I don't think there's much difference, between women and men — most of both are awful. But there's a few... worth loving, and dying for, I guess. If they'll let you." The answer was more honest and genuine than he would have expected, but Charles couldn't quite get past _I don't think there's much difference, between women and men._ It played in his mind like a drumbeat while he focused on scraping the already very clean hoof he was working on, lip trapped between his teeth in careful thought. An excited gasp followed Arthur's answer, almost certainly Mary-Beth. 

"I just knew you was a romantic Mister Morgan, I just knew it!" She exclaimed proudly. Charles bit the inside of his cheek, every bit as enthused as Mary-Beth was, but remaining hidden behind the horses. He set the geldings hoof down carefully, not quite ready to leave his hiding spot. He rose slowly, but the small group of people by the wagon had not noticed him — he continued brushing the gelding quietly. Charles wasn't _quite_ able to bring himself to feel guilty for eavesdropping — they all knew nothing that happened in camp was exactly _private;_ plus, Charles was too caught up in what he was hearing to worry about if he should be hearing it. He'd spent his whole life perfecting the art of being invisible, and he called on that now. Hope, stronger than anything, bloomed like wildflowers in the springtime in Charles's chest.

"We heard you went to see Mary." That was Karen now, unabashedly teasing him. Charles wished he could see Arthur's face.

"She just needed some help with her brother, and rightly figured I was the fool with experience dealing with wayward brothers." A gusty sigh. "That's all. Ain't nothin' like those stories you girls are always readin'."

"Aw, come on Arthur! You gotta give us more than that." Tilly pleaded, and apparently Arthur was a big softie after all, because he took a seat on the empty crate beside them, wood creaking while he chuckled at them.

"It was good to see her, actually." Arthur told them. His voice sounded warm. "It helped me to finally realize something."

"What did you realize, Arthur?" Karen asked, much more gentle now. Arthur didn't respond immediately, clearing his throat.

"I realized while I will always love her, I suppose — she meant a lot to me, once. But I don't love her in that way anymore. I suppose..." Arthur trailed off, but the girls remained silent — no doubt hanging on to every word. As was Charles. "Well, I suppose I realize I'm finally ready to move on. I've let her go." Arthur continued, quietly, like a confession — much more solemn than the words he was speaking.

"Oh, Arthur! I'm so happy for you!" Mary-Beth cried out, but gently, as if she could sense the toll it took on Arthur to admit such a thing and was holding back her usual exuberance.

"You know I never liked Mary much, anyway." Tilly added. Arthur chuckled again.

"I believe you ladies have always made your opinions perfectly clear." Arthur told her drily, and at the way she laughed, Charles made a mental note to ask Hosea for stories about a younger Tilly and Arthur.

"Well, who is it, then?" Mary-Beth asked, ignoring their spat.

"What you mean? I never said—"

"Oh, come on Arthur! You know we know you better than all that — you said you was ready to move on!" Mary-Beth demanded impatiently. 

"Is it Mrs. Adler?" Karen asked.

"Jesus — no! She was just made a widow!" Arthur growled, and Charles took just a moment to marvel at it all: Arthur Morgan, wanted outlaw, gunslinger, thief, and killer, flustered by his adopted sisters harassing him over his romantic prospects. _A sight to behold._

"So it is _someone,_ just not her?" Karen smirked. "Is it Abigail?"

"He would never do that to John." Mary-Beth argued.

"Even though he deserves it." Tilly agreed. "Is there someone in town? You are gone an awful lot." 

"Would you three knock it off? There ain't no woman in my life — besides the three of you, pestering me to get a woman." Arthur grumbled. A beat passed, then two, as the girls no doubt analyzed what he had just said, looking for holes. Tilly, all sharp wit like Hosea, was the quickest on the draw.

"So it ain't a woman." She stated it simply, like that was the obvious conclusion to draw. _I don't think there's much difference, between women and men._

"Oh!" Mary-Beth sounded far too thrilled by that revelation. "You _have_ been spending lots of time with Mister Smith lately." She pointed out smugly. When Arthur only sighed, she squawked. "I knew it!"

"Hunting trips, huh, Arthur?" Karen jabbed. Charles took a slow, measured breath, waiting for Arthur to insist they were off the mark. He gave up on the pretense of pretending to brush the horse, simply standing behind him and waiting, brush grasped loosely in his hand. He just hoped no one caught him there, eavesdropping and hiding behind the horses, because for the life of him Charles could not formulate a plausible excuse.

"It ain't like that, Karen." Arthur sighed. Charles's heart sank. "We was just hunting."

"Yet, you sound disappointed." Karen accused.

"Charles is my friend — I know he ain't interested in some beat up old outlaw."

"But _you_ are interested, then?" Karen pressed.

"Mister Smith _is_ pretty handsome." Mary-Beth supplied helpfully, before Arthur could respond. 

"He is." Arthur agreed, and Charles closed his eyes, pressing his forehead against the geldings warm flank. "But what I'm interested in don't matter. Nothing would come of it, either way."

"What makes you so sure, Arthur?" Tilly asked softly. Gone was her teasing — she sounded concerned. Another piece of history Charles wasn't privy to.

"He's a good man. If he even were interested in other men, he could do better than me." Arthur explained, sounding like it should be obvious.

"You don't know that unless you try." Tilly countered. "If he's such a good man, like you say, he wouldn't stop being your friend over it even if he weren't interested — which _I_ happen to think he is, thank you very much." Sternness entered her tone at the end, making Charles smile, even as embarrassed as he was to be seen right through by the three of them.

"What makes you so sure, Tilly?" Arthur asked, throwing her words back at her. 

"He ain't taking anyone else on hunting trips." She sounded smug. Wood creaked again — Arthur rising to his feet.

"I've got things to get to — that's enough gossip for one day." Arthur told them, gruffly. His footsteps retreated, just a half a pace more quickly than he normally walked. Charles took a deep breath without opening his eyes, smothering the soft smile he couldn't quite hide in the gelding's copper colored flank.

//

Arthur booked it toward his tent. He moved as quickly as possible without looking too much like he was running away. He knew the girls meant well — maybe even had a point — and that they wouldn't spread _this_ particular piece of gossip through the camp. But he found, as good as it felt to talk to them, it was _hard._ Goodness and softness and hope and joy and yearning were things he had locked away for so many years. He hadn't even realized how much scar tissue it was all buried under until he tried to drag that part of himself back out into the light, bloodying his hands and tearing his chest cavity open. He felt gutted, strewn out like a vulture-picked-over-carcass, his innards lying bare for the world to see. Arthur reached his tent, and after a split second hesitation, he kept walking. Even with the canvas walls down and closed, he felt too exposed to sit in the center of camp right then. He headed for the cliffs at the edge of camp — a good place as any to be left _alone._

"Arthur!" A very distinctive and familiar voice called out to him. _Maybe not._ Arthur considered ignoring John, or maybe ripping into him, but something stopped him. Maybe it was Hosea's verbal beatdown from the previous evening, or maybe it was just the fact that of everyone in the camp, John Marston was probably the least likely to bring up his feelings. Either way, Arthur stopped. John was sat on a crate underneath the big tree at the edge of camp, and he had a map spread out over his knees. Hosea sat on the ground beside him, leaned up against the tree, taking a nap. Arthur jerked his head wordlessly, indicating for John to follow him. Marston scrambled to his feet and followed Arthur, dropping the map on the crate and following after Arthur — taking his hint to let Hosea rest. The two men came to a stop at the cliffside, looking out over the sprawl of New Hanover below them.

"What you want, Marston?" Arthur asked.

"Uncle told me something about a train."

"What did he say?" Arthur prodded. John turned to face him then, but Arthur kept his gaze firmly ahead, staring unseeing into the distance. He did not want to see the livid claw marks across half of John's face, still held together with stitches. He didn't want the nauseating gutroll of guilt-anger-pain-sorrow-protectiveness-loss-more guilt that he associated with John as of late. He didn't want any of it.

"Mary-Beth overheard something about a train full of wealthy folk, rolling down through Scarlet Meadows, just south of the state border."

"Yes." Arthur acknowledged but said nothing more, forcing John to get to his point.

"You need help with it?" John asked, eager as he always was to rush headfirst into a job. Arthur held up both of his palms in a _slow down_ gesture.

"I ain't even sure about doing it." Arthur cautioned.

"Come on..." John wheedled him. "At night, not too guarded, it's perfect."

"I ain't thought it through." Arthur admitted, turning to face John finally. "You know, stopping a train? Pain in the ass."

"Sure." John agreed. "But what if we could force a train to stop?"

"Well, of course." Arthur scoffed, looking back out over the cliffs. John just barreled on, ignoring Arthur's pessimism.

"We get a wagon full of something flammable — oil." _That_ got Arthur's attention — he turned back, paying attention now. "We put it on the tracks. They see it, they know they have to either stop... or die. Ain't no train driver wants to be cooked alive." John finished explaining his plan and watched Arthur expectantly. Arthur wondered when it was that John had grown up and become so much like Dutch, and why that made him so damn uneasy. He pushed it aside.

"That is... kinda brilliant." Arthur conceded, nodding appreciatively. John ducked his head at the praise, a habit he'd long ago picked up from Arthur. The sight felt like a blow to the head. He pushed that aside too. "Uh, for you." He added on. John looked up with an eyeroll, ready to argue. "And that is a _real_ idea... I think that's the first time you ever had one of them."

"Shut up."

"You might be the first bastard to ever have half your brains eaten by a wolf and end up more intelligent." Arthur goaded.

"So, are we doing this?" John asked impatiently. 

"Yeah. We're gonna need ammunition, guns — look real frightening... and some dynamite, to open up the train."

"I'll get the supplies." John offered. "I gotta head into town for Abigail anyway. Don't ask." Arthur snorted a laugh, at that.

"I wasn't gonna." John set off for the horses, and with Hosea's words buzzing around in his head like angry hornets, Arthur fell in beside him. He watched John carefully out of the corner of his eye.

"You can go find us an oil wagon." John said just then, apparently remembering the other half of the plan.

"Yeah, I know just the place." Arthur assured him. "They're always going in and out of that refinery." He'd passed it a handful of times, but the memory that sprung forth was his hunting trip with Charles. The refinery had lurked in the background, spread out over the grass like a festering wound while the scent of blood hung in the air, dead poachers at their feet. Oil wagons had moved in his periphery like ants, far in the distance. 

"There's an old rundown shack just over the border, north of a place called Dewberry Creek. Leave it hidden somewhere near there." With that, John left Arthur by his tent, and Arthur offered a two fingered salute as he went. He watched John go, full of things he didn't want to think on.

//

Hosea settled his hat back over his face, deciding to try to get some more rest while he could. Things weren't fixed entirely — there was still the small matter of the price on their heads, their lack of money, the Pinkerton's commissioned to hunt them down. But his two eldest sons were on their way to mending things. Hosea felt lighter than he had in a long time.

//

Arthur unhitched the Suffolk Punch mares from the oil wagon, sending them galloping off with a sharp swat to the rump. They would find their way back home, more than likely — or end up on any number of the farms between Lemoyne and New Hanover. Arthur surveyed the wagon, making sure it was properly hidden in the foliage. _Marston picked a good spot,_ Arthur thought, grudgingly appreciative. It had been easy enough to steal the wagon — he'd scaled the wall, just outside of where the wagons were kept. Conveniently for him, where the wagons were kept was just inside of the entrance — the guards had only noticed him as he blew past them onto the road. By the time they had mounted up to give chase, Arthur was long gone, their angry shouts fading into the distance. He hoped the rest of the job would go as smoothly. Hermes nudged Arthur's arm, grabbing his attention. Arthur had taken him out to go wagon snatching to get him some exercise — the gelding had just been sitting in camp for the past few days, since he'd found Atropos. Plus, Nyx had more than earned herself a rest after the trip to and from Ambarino. He swung up into the saddle, giving Hermes his head as they set off back to camp. It was another gorgeous day, and as he crossed the border back into New Hanover, Arthur found himself in a much better mood. He sang old songs to himself as the emerald-and-beige-and-blue landscape rushed on by, horse-gallop fast. 

_We run for life, for death was near, four hundred on our trail..._ Hermes kept up an all out gallop, eager to go after a handful of days stuck in camp. The turnoff to Horseshoe came and went, and still they didn't slow. Arthur scarcely steered, just along for the ride.

 _Now I am a prisoner, in the Stillwater jail I lie..._ It felt good, just him and his horse, the endless trail and the open sky. They headed northwest, splashing through the shallows of the Dakota. Valentine flashed past, but still, Arthur felt no desire to slow. They crossed the bridge east of Valentine, and kept on, crossing the border into West Elizabeth.

 _Two James boys left to tell the tale of the sad and fatal day!_ Finally, Arthur gathered the reins, collecting Hermes into a steady lope. The Pinkerton patrols didn't extend into Big Valley, as far as he knew, but it was the next county over from the Great Plains, so Arthur kept his guard up. The temperature dropped as the land rose and prairie gave way to forest. The road kept winding through the trees. Signs of life were everywhere, but none of them human — squirrels chattered in the trees, and birdsong filled the air. He could feel the pull of responsibility, tugging him in the direction of camp, but it had been a busy week — hell, a busy _month_ — and Arthur allowed himself to indulge in his desire to roam, if just for an afternoon. Hermes's breathing gradually returned to normal, just as Arthur noticed aggrieved muttering coming from a clearing off the road. Arthur turned to it, approaching curiously. A liver chestnut Morgan mare watched his approach; her owner, however, seemed entirely unaware of his presence. He wore khaki pants and a green plaid vest with a robins egg blue shirt underneath; the sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. He had on a pale hat with a short brim and a ribbon band around it. He had a full beard, but in the groomed, intentional sort of way — he was far too pressed and proper to be roughing it. He was the source of the muttering — he was fussing with a camera perched on a stand in the middle of the clearing. Every so often he would peer through the lens, before returning to his tinkering in a harried sort of way. Arthur got the impression whatever he was trying to do, wasn't going to plan. The irritable grumbling remained constant as Arthur approached. He swung down from the saddle, ground tying Hermes and walking closer. The man looked harmless, and definitely at odds with his surroundings — he looked like he belonged behind a clerk's counter. Arthur was curious.

"Morning to you." At the sound of Arthur's voice, the bookish man jumped, gasping loudly. He whirled around to face Arthur, one hand pressed tightly to his chest, eyes wide. It was almost comical. Arthur found himself endeared to this stranger.

"Hello." The man greeted Arthur in return. He seemed to get over his initial fright, because he held his hands out, gesturing around them. "Quite a day, isn't it?" He asked.

"Sure." Arthur agreed, watching the man as he began to pace.

"What a country." The stranger continued. "I'm working on a project... photography!" He told Arthur proudly.

"Yeah, I guessed that bit." Arthur gestured to the camera, indicating even someone like him was aware of what it was.

"Of course." The man nodded. "Wildlife, that's my thing... or, that's what I _want_ to be my thing." The man's pacing brought him farther out from the camera now, and Arthur watched him. He began gesturing now, animated and agitated. "If I have to take another picture of a grumpy house frau or pompous middle class burgher, I will feed myself to the lions!" The stranger turned his back, and Arthur leaned in closer to the camera, peering at the lens as he had seen the man doing before. The stranger was talkative and far too trusting — normally, things that would have annoyed Arthur, or inspired him to rob the man, as an easy mark. Arthur waited, but neither impulse came. He liked the bookish stranger, and kind folks on the road were a rarity. The man's pacing came to a halt, a few yards in front of the camera. "Stand here." He ordered, apropos of nothing.

"Here?" Arthur asked, walking forward and gesturing to the ground just in front of where the stranger stood.

"Just..." The man grabbed Arthur's shoulders, guiding him into the spot he meant. The forwardness of the gesture put a flush to Arthur's cheeks. "There!" Seeming to realize the familiarity of the action himself, the man extended a hand, glancing back and forth between Arthur and the camera. "Albert Mason." He introduced himself. Arthur took the proffered hand, giving it a hearty shake.

"Arthur Morgan." He replied — he did not get the sense Albert Mason was up to date on wanted posters or criminal activity.

"Pleasure." Albert replied genuinely. He patted Arthur's shoulder — a bit like one would soothe a wary horse — and made his way back over to his camera. "I'm trying to find and capture images of our great predators, before our greatest predators kill them all and stick them on some clubhouse wall." Albert told him, once again fussing with his camera.

"Good luck with that." Arthur told him, amused.

"Yes... not the easiest... but, well — I love a challenge." The camera clicked, and with a flash of smoke and light and sound, Albert captured Arthur's likeness. The irony of it was not lost on Arthur — surely, the folk back in New York or Chicago or Boston or whatever big city Albert Mason hailed from would view Arthur much the same as they viewed the wolves. He coughed to cover a laugh. "The trick is to leave a big load of meat, and relax, and pray they don't mistake me for lunch." Albert explained. "Oh! Good heavens!" Albert yelped at something over Arthur's shoulder — he turned to see a coyote grab a leather bag and run off. "My bag — that thing is robbing me!" Albert cried out helplessly. Before he could think too much on it, Arthur set off in pursuit.

"Don't worry!" Arthur called over his shoulder. "And that 'thing' is a coyote." Arthur added. "A sneaky one, too." The coyote led him out of the trees, up a rock strewn grassy slope. Arthur began to huff as he ascended the hill. "Wildlife photographer." He muttered to himself irritably. The land leveled out into a clearing with small outbuildings and abandoned supplies. Arthur recognized the place; it was where they had rescued Sean from bounty hunters, and where Charles had saved his own ass because he'd gotten distracted staring. "Leave the meat, mister!" Arthur called out. The coyote looked back at Arthur over his shoulder, too intelligent eyes appraising him. It dropped the bag and took off into the trees, yipping in a way that sounded suspiciously like laughter. Arthur retrieved the bag, still catching his breath. "And don't come back!" He called after it. The sound of the coyote's departure faded away, so Arthur turned and made his way back to Albert. "Well, I got your bag!" He announced as he approached. Albert looked back up from his camera.

"Oh, thank you! Thank you sir."

"Bag full of meat will tend to bring out the worst in the local population." Arthur informed him as he began digging through the bag, as if checking to make sure the coyote hadn't taken anything out.

"You are a gentleman." Albert clapped a hand on Arthur's shoulder. "The bag also had a lot of my supplies; you've saved me days." Albert set the bag down safely within reach of his camera. "I'm... I can't thank you enough. Thank you."

"Don't worry about it." Arthur insisted. All he'd done was chase after a coyote. Albert was staring at the camera again.

"You take care, sir." Albert said distractedly.

"I ain't the one trying to get myself eaten." Arthur pointed out. That got Albert to look back up, chastised.

"Yes, I realize I am a fool. Forgive me... and thank you very much, once again." With that, Albert returned to his work. Recognizing a dismissal if he ever saw one, Arthur took his leave. Hermes had stayed put patiently through the whole coyote debacle, and seemed recovered from his long run. Arthur swung up into the saddle, setting off for camp once more. The ride back was mostly quiet, and Arthur ran through the past few days in his mind, trying to find some kind of order in his thoughts while he still had a modicum of privacy. Somewhere on the road between the New Hanover border and Horseshoe Overlook, Arthur ran into an old, blind beggar. A blind old beggar who claimed himself a fortune teller, or a prophet.

"Help a blind man?" He asked, hunched over a walking stick. Arthur stopped, and pulled out a handful of coins to drop in the man's tin cup. The words the man uttered in response stayed in Arthur's head on a loop, like a drumbeat, for the rest of the ride back to camp. They stayed further still, through the day, until he struggled to fall asleep that night. Through the following days, weeks, months, still, those words would stay.

_Your whole life has been one of regret, but it can end better than it began._


End file.
